Highever Blue
by Celesteennui
Summary: Alistair long ago made peace with the fact that his lot in life was going to be protecting Cailan from himself. Only when Elissa crashes into his life, bold, bright, and wholly focused upon him, does he question what he really wants his lot to be. A Blightless/Darkspawn free AU.
1. Knocked Right Off Of Your Feet

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Dragon Age franchise and I make no profit from this work of fanfiction.

 **Author's Note:** The artwork for this story was made by hija-ck, who's tumblr info you can find a link to on my profile here. Thank you again for this wonderful cover, hija! XOXO!

* * *

Cailan is a dead man. He is a tit and an ass and also a very, very, _very_ dead man.

And _you_ are the fool who follows after him. The voice in Alistair's head endeavoring to temper his ire towards Cailan sounds a dreadful lot like Wynne. Well, if Wynne ever called him a fool.

So maybe it's more comparable to Anora then…

Beneath him, Drust, whinnies and his ears twitch back. Agreement with that little voice, surely.

"Oh, hush, you," he orders even as he reaches forward to scratch the now normally positioned ears. He's often heard high praise for Mabari being so smart, Alistair reckons that his horse is as clever as any war hound. Probably smarter even, since Drust usually avoids trouble.

Unless his silly human has to chase that silly brother of his.

Another whinny.

"Stop that," he tells the horse. Drust doesn't make another sound but Alistair has the distinct impression that those big brown eyes are rolling at him.

Very recently, Cailan had gotten the itch to be a true hunter. "As Dane once was," Cailan's actual quote on the matter, when he had announced his intentions to scout the Brecilian outskirts for wolves during the last court session. Never mind that there were absolutely no reports of wolves coming from the Brecilian. Which, one of the courtiers had kindly pointed out while trying not to laugh. Cailan's response was insisting that it was his responsibility to ensure things remained that way, and Father's response had been to put his forehead in his hand while Lady Gyllianne distracted the rest of court with talks about the upcoming Grand Progress.

Alistair had known his brother wouldn't take the aspersion to his current flight of fantasy well, as he never did. When Alistair was eight and Cailan thirteen, he had gotten it into his head that it would be a worthy task of the crown prince to clear brigands from the streets of Denerim. Father had confirmed it was not, at least when the crown prince hadn't even begun his squiredom. Cailan, being well, Cailan, had decided to show just what an un-squired Ferelden prince was made of. Which, turned out to be a bloody nose, a concussion, and broken arm, all of which he'd gotten falling out of his window. The only reason that he didn't bleed out on the flagstones was because Alistair being, well, Alistair had known Cailan would try something stupid and had snuck into his brother's rooms to tattle if things went awry.

The pattern has repeated many times over the years. Cailan does something stupid and Alistair tags along/secretly follows to make sure that the aforementioned something stupid doesn't result in Cailan's death. Partially for love of his brother and partially because there is no way in Andraste's name that Alistair is going to be stuck with the crown.

Maker, he will find a blood mage to resurrect Cailan if he does something as selfish as dying.

The chances if Cailan dying are quite slim however. Especially since in the two days that Alistair has spent galloping his way over back roads to intercept Cailan's little hunting party, he has discovered that said hunting party didn't venture as far as feared. In fact, they had never even left the city. The crown prince and his guard had made a detour from their trail into the red lantern district where, according to Lady Gyllianne, they were still carousing at the Pearl when she wrote her missive.

The poor messenger falcon had very nearly flown off at all of the very loud, very obscene words that had escaped Alistair when he read the note. It certainly seemed eager enough to leave him when he had jotted the reply down.

And now here Alistair is, in Brecilian outskirts, weighing out his options. Does he return to Denerim to drag his brother by the hair out of the brothel? Or live the life of a hermit in the woods? He will miss Father, Wynne, Zevran, and the rest of his small circle of friends from court. But he's not sure that they're worth having to live with the ridicule that will come with this little mishap.

Ugh. He can hear Landry now.

 _Jumped the bow, eh, Princeling? Ha-ha! Mayhap you'll get a real trail before riding off next time._

And maybe one of those louts could go ahead and leave a note so he wouldn't have to worry and jump the bloody bow. Honestly, how hard would it be?

 _Prince Alistair,_

 _Your twat of brother has gone off to disprove everyone's opinions about him being rash by being rash. As expected. And as always, he'll put his own plan tits up. This time for actual tits. We'll be at the Pearl. No need to ride out to try and make sure he's safe, what with his history of getting smacked in the face with these things._

 _Maker Bless,_

 _The Idiots Who Serve Your Favorite Idiot_

The bitterness those thoughts is more concentrated than Alistair realizes until Drust comes to an abrupt stop.

"Hey!" he exclaims as he pitches a bit in the saddle. Drust snorts and paws at the ground. As his horse pulls the reigns, Alistair notes the rigid grip he has on them. His posture is even worse; Drust probably feels like he's carrying a man-shaped hunk of wood.

He pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger, in attempt to soothe the headache he's just noticed as well. Time for a break.

Now _that_ voice sounds like Wynne.

"Sorry, boy," Alistair sighs as he slips from the saddle.

He pats his mount as he stretches; his thighs, lower back, and rump alternate between burning and tingling numbness. Really, he needed to do this anyway. All of the shortcuts he'd taken definitely helped to curtail the normally lengthy journey between the capital and the forest, but it's still over a day's worth of hard riding that he's been doing. It was long before sun-up when Alistair first began today's leg of the journey and it is now well after midday. If nothing else, he needs to conserve his strength so he can yell at Cailan.

"I know, I know," he says as Drust butts his forehead to Alistair's shoulder, lipping the sleeve of his leather jerkin. From a belt pouch, he pulls a handful of dried apples and pears. Drust accepts the offering, munching happily while Alistair has a look about.

They never made it completely into the forest proper, even with all of his shortcuts. Generally speaking, the Brecilian Forest is a good three/three-and-a-half days' ride from the capital. The air in the outskirts however, is still thick with the scent of warm earth, thimbleweed, celandine, and the other pungent smells typical of Ferelden's deeper woods.

9:30 Dragon has been so far, unseasonably warm, warm enough that Alistair's cloak is neatly bundled in a saddlebag. Spring burst in before Guardian was even finished, now Cloudreach has barely begun, and everything is abloom. There was some worry of flooding with the initial onset of this fair weather, but in so far no dire news has reached Denerim. In fact, it's been quite the opposite; fields have been set and they are thick in the Bannorn and Hinterlands.

Altogether, Alistair reasons that it isn't a terrible time to be out and about.

"Even if it is on a goose-hunt for an inconsiderate twat, right?" he muses aloud while scratching Drust's nose. His horse wickers and noses his forehead, as if in agreement. Alistair laughs. "I knew you'd be on my side."

The trickle of a stream catches his attention as he feeds another handful of dried fruits to his mount. It sounds very near, an assumption proven true when he follows the sound through the underbrush on his left to spy water running between thatches of bloodroot and ferns. With a gentle tug, Alistair guides Drust through the brush.

The ring on the little finger of his left hand remains silver as when he kneels and cups a handful at the stream's edge. Safe to drink. He gulps down that handful and several more while Drust follows suit. The water is almost sweet on his tongue and a relief to splash on his face. Until he was hunching down here, Alistair really hadn't realized just how long and very warm this trek has been.

"Boil him in oil?" he asks Drust, reaching over to yet again scratch the horse's ears.

Said ears flick forward and he takes a moment to nuzzle Alistair's palm before returning attention to the stream.

"Right, right, too obvious." Alistair sighs and allows himself fall back onto the bank. It's a little gravelly, but stretching out is far too appealing. "Shall we enlist Jenna to sew a few fish in his featherbed?"

Drust whickers and Alistair feels his tail swish.

"Yes, that's more subtle," he agrees, pillowing both arms beneath his head.

Through the brilliant green-gold canopy above, Alistair can make out an even more brilliant sky. This would be the perfect time and place to ride just for the joy of it. He and Cailan used to do it often enough, when they were younger.

Alistair does not feel a pang for those days when Cailan's recklessness was selfless and he always included him in the mayhem. No, he does _not_.

Another whicker from Drust. _Liar, liar_. That noise says. _Trousers on fire._

"Shush, you," he orders, sticking out his tongue.

Alistair closes his eyes, refusing to allow any thoughts to linger on what in the Maker's name made Cailan start behaving like such a prat. He is going to rest, make his leisurely way back home, and get a sixteen-year-old-girl to help him employ a five-year-old's prank when he does. Because Cailan started this.

He is already half-dozing into what should be a very nice catnap (another thing that makes Drust as good as a Mabari, he's one hell of a lookout) when the first far-off notes reach his ears. Said impending catnap almost has them ignored; a good song doesn't usually encumber sleep. Especially when the pitch is softened by distance. But Drust's inquisitive whinny and pawing rouse him.

" _The Lion's ships were Denerim Bound_

 _Oh, drop him, Lady, drop him!_

 _Let the True King's call for aid resound_

 _Just Drop him, Lady, drop him!_

 _Leading thirty souls in Maric's name._

 _Just Drop him, Lady, drop him!"_

Sitting up, Alistair motions for Drust to be quiet and cranes his head, seeking the direction of the song. Northeast, he decides after a moment, upstream. More intriguingly, _female_.

" _Turn him loose and let him go_

 _Down to the rocks and waves below_

 _The depths can have that scurvy knave_

 _Just Drop him, Lady, drop him!"_

He probably shouldn't be so curious. Wary, maybe; the main roads and surrounding areas are quite safe in Ferelden, even for night travelers, but Alistair hasn't exactly been staying on the main roads that are so diligently patrolled by Kingsmen. Still, wariness doesn't even begin to creep up his spine, it's just inquisitiveness. Though inquisitiveness isn't what forces him to investigate. _That_ would be Drust.

"Hey!" Alistair exclaims as his horse trots off ahead. Rolling to his feet, he scrambles to catch up. "Drust! By the Maker, get back here!"

But his (usually) faithful steed isn't paying him one bit of attention. Upstream Drust goes, weaving just barely ahead through thick boughs and vines, leaving Alistair trip on roots and wet stone.

"Dammit all!" He just barely catches himself on a vine. It takes all of Alistair's self-control not to scoop a handful of pebbles up and lob them at Drust's backside right before it disappears through a thick copse of silver cedar and larches. "What in Andraste's name has gotten into you?!"

It worries him. Really and truly. Drust isn't exactly obedient but he is loyal. Biting a fully armored knight who raised his voice at Alistair loyal, he's never just run off on him before. Well, not in the wilderness anyway.

Irritation conveniently allows him to miss the fact that the singing has stopped. His guard has fallen to the wayside. Though, to be fair, that would have happened even if he wasn't vexed with his horse. Naked women tend to do that.

He sees them and Drust (bloody traitor) as he shoves his way through the very thick wall of leaves and into a clearing on the other side. The clearing is wide and home to a pond, in which one of the women is mostly submerged. Vaguely, at the very corners of Alistair's mind, he realizes that _she_ is snarling. But that doesn't fully register because her companion is _not_ in the water and she is staring right back at him.

Something in Alistair seizes up and it's not simply because this is the first fully unclothed woman he has ever seen. That is a big part of it, yes. _Huge_ part actually, because wow. Just, _wow_. All of the time that he's spent trying _not_ to be a skirt-chasing fool like Cailan and he almost regrets it. How in the Maker's name has he gone twenty years without knowing firsthand that non-marble breasts can be _that_ nice?

Still, even for the, err, lovely shape of her chest, Alistair is even more caught up in the gaze that falls level with his. It's blue. But not just blue. It is deep and bright and he has never seen a color so brilliant before in his entire bloody life.

Time stops in the vibrant peaks of those eyes, as if he's trapped there, encased in an eternity of azure. Alistair can feel every drop of blood in his body, how it's torn between rushing to his face or to the space between his legs while his heart pumps furiously. He's never had any real magic worked on him, other than the healing sort, but if he were to guess what being enthralled might compare to, this would be very close. It isn't, Alistair decides, something that he is wholly against.

The spell (yes, he _is_ going to call it that) is broken when she turns her head to the left. It leaves him disoriented, as if he hasn't been breathing. Which might be accurate, between chasing Drust and stumbling into the grove that dreams are made of. He doesn't get to think about it since his attention is taken up by the reason that those pretty eyes turned from him.

All the warning he gets in that split second between the turning of her head and a stony fist to his ribcage is the sharp cry of, "Morrigan, don't!"

Morrigan—the woman in the water apparently— _does_ though, and Alistair is slammed backwards into the trees. The wind is driven from his lungs, crushed out between wood and stone, and the last thought that scurries through his head before it snaps back, cracking against bark is at least his last living sight was something very nice. If albeit related to the instrument of his demise.

Maker, being beaten to death by naked women was how everyone expected his brother to go…

Oh, he is going to haunt the ever-loving shit out of Cailan.


	2. Never Say It Was Settling

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Dragon Age franchise and I make no profit from this work of fanfiction.

* * *

Death doesn't come for Alistair today. Though he's a little unsure of that fact when his eyes reopen. His life hasn't exactly been over-pious but he thinks he's been more than good. And what better thing to find at the Maker's side than a pretty face beset with riveting blue eyes?

That's the first thing that he can make out. Hazy, darkened, and blurred as things are, those eyes looking down upon him are clear. As is the voice that warns him, "Be still."

He doesn't listen, of course. But his attempt to sit up is thwarted by a strong, steady hands on his shoulders. And a very, very, _very_ nasty ache that radiates from his gut up into his chest. It's accompanied by a less intense but still very unpleasant and sharper throb at the back of his head.

" _By Andraste_." Alistair groans, turning his head with no small effort, into the fabric that it's been pillowed on. It's firm, warm, and smells like valerian.

The Blue-Eyed Woman, or so he assumes, cards a hand through his hair. It isn't a soft hand, but it is gentle. "I did try and tell you," she says, a note of laughter in her voice. She sounds like a chantry after the sacred hymns have been sung on a holy day; smoky, sweet, and infinitely calm.

Belatedly, as he looks back up, he realizes that his head is pillowed in her lap. She's no longer naked—thank Andraste or he might die of spontaneous fever—and wears a overlarge gray shirt. Her unbound and still very damp hair is blacker than pitch, tendrils of which cling to her pale, oval face. The mouth beneath her slightly snubbed nose is wide and tipping at the corner.

Beautiful eyes or no, Alistair really does like the look of her face.

"Stop coddling the cur."

Alistair decidedly does _not_ like the other face that his eyes flick too. It's not unattractive, in fact he could see objectively how the finer, more delicate features might be argued as quite lovely while the Blue-Eyed Woman's would simply be labeled pretty. Her eyes are sharp though, yellow-gold and suspicious. It isn't at all difficult to imagine that those eyes could tear him apart if given the chance.

Considering the rock fist, yes, not difficult in the slightest.

Instinctively, he draws back against the Blue-Eyed Woman; at least as much as he's able which isn't a lot. He's too afraid of his attacker to mind the giggling that comes from his headrest.

"Stop it," the Blue-Eyed Woman orders her companion. Her tone is fond, as if the other woman was not capable of making huge rocks fly at bodies. Her gaze flicks back to Alistair. "I do apologize on my sister's behalf. She never did like being startled. Our eldest brother has quite a few scars for jumping out at us from cupboards."

"And he deserved them all," the witch—no, _Morrigan_ —says with not short order of superiority. She's clothed too, fully in a plain but well-made riding dress. Her hair is also black and her skin also very pale. Alistair doesn't flinch when her prickly glare moves from the Blue-Eyed Woman, to him. Not a bit.

Not that he's going to admit to himself at least.

She sniffs. "As would any vulgar fool who thought to come tramping in on ladies at their bath."

Morrigan is scary but not so scary that Alistair will just let her call him a Peeping-Tom.

"I was chasing my horse," he growls trying—and failing—to sit up and meet her scowl at level. His aching head and midsection as well as the Blue-Eyed Woman's stern grip, keep him down. "Which by the way, where did he go?"

For a moment, panic clutches Alistair's gullet. By her so-far appearances, Morrigan doesn't belay even an ounce of sympathy, be it towards strange men or strange animals. The fire in her gold-yellow eyes actually makes him lean towards the idea that, were the Blue-Eyed Woman not present, she'd roast his flesh and eat it.

As if on cue, Drust appears, nosing Alistair's face like a dog to confirm that he is indeed all right.

"Ugh, stop it!" he orders, unable to will any sort of real command in his voice. Also, his neck is ticklish as all get out, and he can't help from giggling as Drust lips at his collarbone. The giggling doesn't help his aches either. "No! Ouch! Drust—Maker this is all your fault, I haven't forgotten that! Okay, boy, enough!"

Drust notes the seriousness in his voice because he stops after one final nudge to Alistair's cheek. Looking up he finds that the Blue-Eyed Woman is grinning.

"He was very worried," she explains, giving his horse a pat on the forehead. "Morrigan nearly had to throw a vine net on him to get him calmed down. You're lucky for that sort of care."

"Yes, lucky," he says, to achy to keep stem the sarcastic bend of his tongue. "I had a very large cat once that used to show affection by running through your legs when you were on the stairs. Funny how care can be interpreted with making sure you end up meeting hard stone one way or another."

The Blue-Eyed Woman laughs again, deeper and Alistair swears that it's pure music. Also, she snorts like a piglet which only makes her laugh harder.

"Forgive me," she says with a hand to her mouth. "That was..." She giggles again. "My apologies, My Lord."

"Alistair," he corrects her, quickly too. It's also technically true, he wouldn't typically be addressed as _my lord_ ; the correct designation for him would be _your highness_. And Alistair wants to hear that even less. "My, um, my name is Alistair."

The Blue-Eyed Woman's smile deepens and Alistair feels lightheaded all over again. "A pleasure to meet you, Alistair. Even under these...odd circumstances. I am Elissa."

"I am charmed," he says and absolutely means it.

"I am going to vomit."

Yes, Alistair is sure that Morrigan would set him on fire now. Her eyes have narrowed upon him like he carries a plague. Or she wants to give him a plague. And of course, set him on fire.

"Morrigan," Elissa's voice cuts the air, albeit gently. The witch softens, just marginally by all appearances. For her however, Alistair suspects that that's actually a great deal. With a grunt, she nods and pushes up the sleeves on her dress.

"Hold still, I might have cracked one of your ribs," Morrigan instructs, laying her hands on his chest and abdomen. As her cool palms brush skin, Alistair realizes that his shirt and jerkin have been removed. He's been laid (half) bare before two women for Maker only knows how long.

Embarrassment doesn't really have time to set in though. Not with the tingling going on beneath his skin and the sharp series of pops that he feels.

"Ah!" Instinct sends him curling away from the blue light of Morrigan's healing magic. Elissa's strong grip—really _absurdly_ strong—keeps him in place however.

"Make that three, "Morrigan says with a smile on her face that Alistair outright loathes. She quirks a smug eyebrow at her sister. "My aim is improving. Do remind me to rub that in Velanna's face."

" _You_ remind you," Elissa tells her sister, a whisper of exasperation to her voice. "And while I'm not there, please." To Alistair, she says, "Really, you do need to stay still. And don't worry; Morrigan's knows what she's doing."

"Part of the worry," he tells her. Elissa chuckles.

Any brevity the moment might have had is severed by a sharp twist to Alistair's innards. He yelps and looks down at Morrigan. She smirks in return.

"I know what I'm doing," she says with saccharine that drips from her tongue just like poison.

Before he can risk more of her deadly ire, Elissa again intervenes.

"Sister, _please_ ," she says. Morrigan rolls her eyes but no more particularly nasty pangs radiate up from his chest. The healing is still damn uncomfortable though. Wynne explained it to him once while she reset his nose when he was twelve. Mana slips beneath the skin, knitting tissue, tendon, and muscle, and setting bones. The needle-like tingling means that it's working, that all of the parts are being sewn back together proper.

Morrigan is not Wynne though, with her gentle eyes, careful hands, and years of trust. Or Rhys who hums and tells jokes while he gets the bone to go back beneath the skin. Morrigan does not like him, is wary of him, and Alistair feels all of that in her touch.

Luckily, before he can lose what (very) little dignity he has left by shrieking and attempting to run off like a small child, he feels the warmth of Elissa's hand upon his. Her palm is as broad as his is and her fingers are only slightly thinner, but they are every inch as hard as his are and Alistair is sure that there is more power in her grip. Indeed, as her fingers slat with his, he finds a resolve beneath them that's on par with Dragon Bone.

She dips her head forward just a bit. "Go ahead, squeeze."

He doesn't question her or think twice. He only clasps a little more tightly as the magic does its mending.

Morrigan does not take long at her work. Still, he can feel that it was well-done. All of the aches are gone, replaced by a slight tingling numbness and his head does not spin when he tries to sit up this time. It does mean that he must release Elissa, which he does slowly.

"Thank you," he says running a hand over the back of his head. Dried blood and matted hair are all that he touches; the flesh has sealed neatly, as if it never split.

Morrigan makes a noncommittal sound, which Alistair accepts as being the nicest thing that he could hope for.

"Here." Behind him, Elissa stands and goes toward the pond and some gear that sits at its edge. From it, she pulls a square of undyed cotton and dips it in the water. Alistair does his best _not_ to stare at her long, strong looking legs or backside as she does; especially with her shirt covering just below her thighs.

Very, very supple thighs. They had been warm to rest his head against. Not to mention firm.

By Andraste, it's as if Morrigan knows where his thoughts are straying because those citrine eyes have narrowed on him again and Alistair swears that he smells brimstone. He very nearly jumps out of his skin when Elissa starts dabbing at the back of his neck with her cloth.

"Sorry, I didn't think about warming it up first," she apologizes, oblivious to his _real_ reason for squirming.

"It's—it's all right," he tells her. "I can—"

"Nonsense." Elissa dismisses his attempt to take the cloth away with a light swat. She kneels beside him and Alistair is determined not to look at her lest some new part of her body mesmerize him. "You can't even see it. Besides, I'll be quick, I promise."

"I, um, thank you." And he tries not to shudder as she goes about cleaning him.

"You're very welcome," Elissa says. Even without looking, Alistair can feel her smile and he has to fend off the onslaught of gooseflesh. Morrigan's nose wrinkles.

"You know, healings always leave me disoriented," Elissa says, continuing at her work. "Morrigan, perhaps you could fetch our new companion a few poultices for the road?"

"I don't believe so, no—"

"That's really not necessary—"

He blinks at Morrigan and she scowls at him outright. Again, Elissa is oblivious to the discomfort/ire playing out before her or she is purposely ignoring it. By how she handles her sister, Alistair would place his bet on the latter.

When she speaks again, Elissa's voice is warm but carries a certain inflexibility that leaves no room for argument. "Well, _I_ think it would be a very nice gesture."

Andraste preserve, he will not make it out of here alive. One woman will end him with violence if the other doesn't with kindness.

Morrigan's response is what Alistair expects it to be. Angry, growly, certainly full of disgust that is centered upon him. He just can't comprehend the actual words that she happens to be using.

Standing up, she crosses her arms and levels her glare at Elissa. " _Tá tú ag iarraidh a chodladh leis._ "

Alistair isn't stupid, but his strengths are very much set in languages that he has fluency in. Antivan he's picked up a-plenty, thanks to his brother's maternal heritage and a long friendship with Zevran. Bits of Orlesian have filtered through court, strenuous as their ties with Ferelden are. And he's heard Nevarran enough to recognize it (probably). Whatever tongue Morrigan is speaking now though, it is lost on Alistair.

And of course, Elissa replies in the same tongue (again probably).

" _Morrigan, a cheapann do thoil._ " He glances back to see that Morrigan's sister has crossed her arms. She looks like Teryna Rowan explaining to her husband why he in fact _cannot_ spit at the Orlesian emissary. Fond but clearly tired of this being an subject that must broached so often. " _Tá sé an rí mac is óige. Tá mé ag iarraidh a chinntiú go bhfanann do cheann deas ar do shoulders nuair atá againn a thaispeáint ár n-aghaidh sa phríomhchathair._ "

And like Teyrn Loghain, Morrigan appears very skeptical of the reasoning being presented to her. They could have a very close competition on glowering the moss from a rock, Morrigan and Loghain.

" _Chomh maith leis sin, tá ba mhaith liom a chodladh leis_." Alistair swears that there is mischief in Elissa's eyes when she says that. Not that he minds; said eyes flick briefly to him and he's all but scrabbling to remember his name. " _Ach breathnú ar air._ "

Evidently, whatever it is that Elissa says, it is humorous enough that Morrigan, despite her pinched face, gives a snort of laughter. A pout quickly reforms but she yields.

" _Ugh. Gach ceart ansin._ " She says, throwing up her hands, she picks up her skirt, grabs a nearby staff along with a neat leather satchel, and picks her way out of the clearing. " _An bhfuil mar is mian leat, Deirfiúr. Mar a dhéanann tú i gcónaí._ "

Elissa laughs. " _Go raibh maith agat, Morrigan. Is breá liom tú!_ "

"I know!" Morrigan calls without looking back.

"I…do _not_ understand what just happened here," Alistair says, blinking in the direction of the leaves still rustling from Morrigan's departure.

Still giggling, Elissa returns to swabbing the last remnants of dried blood from his nape. "My sister agreed that she would whip up a few potions and poultices for the road—so long as she does not have keep your company any longer." She pats his shoulder and angles herself forward so that he can see her without over-straining his neck. "Don't take it personally; Morrigan dislikes most folk that she meets."

A chuckle escapes Alistair as he rubs the damp path that Elissa has made between the base of his skull and the tops of his shoulders. "Has she hit all of these other folk with boulders though?"

She shakes her head, grin wider than ever. "Not _all_ , only a few. Actually, just you and a fellow in Tantervale who snuck into her bath to try and woo her with poetry."

"Your sister is...quite protective of her bath time."

"That's the polite thing to say, yes."

"Well, I aim for polite," Alistair says. "Aside from, you know, accidentally barging in on women as they bathe."

Elissa tosses her head back as she laughs. It's deep and clear, like rainwater as it falls into the basin of the large, inner-courtyard fountain back home. As almost all things about her, it makes Alistair's heartbeat a bit more erratic and his ears feel a bit too warm. And then she causes his stomach bottom out with the words, "You are _adorable_."

The last person to call Alistair adorable was Wynne. Wynne has helped to raise him. Wynne knits him scarves, and cleans spots off of his face. Elissa is perhaps the prettiest woman who's spoken to him as a person in his whole life. He doesn't _want_ to be adorable to her.

Maker, why couldn't her sister have been merciful and just killed him?

Mid-spiral into despair, the lidded slant of her eyes and smirk when she spoke finally registers. Alistair blinks at Elissa who continues to smile (though now she appears to be trying not to giggle as well).

"I um—I'm sorry, but are you...are you flirting with me?" he asks. "Is this—? Are we flirting?"

Now she _is_ giggling and Alistair wishes again that Morrigan had gone ahead and ended him while she had the opportunity. "Well, _I_ am," she says swiping an errant tendril out of her eyes. "What you're doing...Yeah, I wouldn't really call that flirting. Still cute and all but, you know, if you have to ask I think it's immediately right out."

"Oh." He swallows hard, disappointment flagging the jittery lightness in his chest. And then he remembers. "Cute?"

Again, Elissa laughs and it's somehow more calming. " _Yes_ ," she says slowly, as if to a child. He ignores that part. "Do you live in a village of blind people with no mirrors hanging about or something?"

Close, he almost says. Just the royal palace where every lady from the age of fifteen to one-hundred-and-fifteen is too busy fawning over Cailan.

"No," he says instead, "I just...It's a little...Pretty girls just usually have better things to do than notice me." That isn't a lie. Technically speaking.

Her smile deepens and a coil deep down in Alistair's gut positively shivers. "Pretty girls where you're from are daft then."

Maybe Morrigan _did_ kill him. Maybe he's died and this is some weird punishment that he's undergoing, crossing the Fade to get to the Maker's side. Or, just a thought, maybe Lyna's people have the right of it, and since he's human Falon'Din has left him to wander. Perpetually tortured by his own awkwardness.

The light brush of fingertips against his elbow jerks Alistair back to reality. Concern, he finds, has once more lit those big blue eyes when he refocuses on Elissa.

"Are you—?"

" _I'm a virgin_."

For a moment, he does not believe that the words actually left his mouth. He _needs_ to believe that they did not. But then the corners of Elissa's mouth twitch and she's laughing hard and loud with that occasional snort and dear Maker, just let him die.

"I should go," he says, scrabbling to stand. "What happened to my shirt and jerkin? You know what, never mind, keep them. Drust!" His horse, who has occupied himself with eating clover at the edge of the clearing, barely looks up.

"Wait!" He thinks Elissa says. Maybe. There's really too much of a frantic pounding in his ears to tell.

"Sorry again for interrupting your bath." He turns praying that all the blood rushing to his face at least gives him a merciful end before he further humiliates himself by tripping. "I'll—"

She grabs his hand. It's a loose and light grip, a subtle point to the fact that he can break free at any moment. He does not though; instead, Alistair turns back. Elissa stands, keeping hold of his wrist as she does. In the brief moment before she speaks, he takes stock of her form a new.

Despite being barefoot, she is taller than he is. Alistair is not sure how much his boots add but he'd wager that without them, she would yet have a good three inches on him at the very least, and _he_ isn't small. She's built for the height; broad shouldered with muscles that are obvious even through the material of the shirt she wears. There are curves too, her hips are wide and full and her breasts are...very full as well.

Maker, she could hoist him over her shoulder like a ragdoll.

Maker, he would _enjoy_ being hoisted over her shoulder like a ragdoll.

"I'm sorry." Her apology crashes through that image, adding guilt on top of embarrassment once he sees genuine contrition in every line of her face. "Really. I shouldn't have laughed. And it wasn't because you said you were a virgin, honest. It was..." She bites her lower lip, trying to offer another smile. "Just the way you tossed it out there. And maybe a little disbelief."

That takes him aback. Not enough to jerk his hand away (but that's neither here nor there, nope, not at all). "What idiot my age would lie about being a virgin?"

"Not an idiot," Elissa says. "But maybe a handsome young man who doesn't know how to politely tell an overly-forward young woman that he just isn't interested in her advances?"

Again, the bottom of Alistair's stomach goes straight out while something akin to a ball of lightning pops in his chest.

"I, um..." Maker, his mouth is so dry that he expects his tongue to crumble. "I think I'd still have to call him an 'idiot'. At least if the woman in question is anything like you."

She chuckles. "You know, I think we can go ahead and suspend the pretenses. I'm interested in you."

He swallows, trying to laugh. "The, um, forwardness is appreciated. Really. It's nice." At his pause, Elissa raises a single brow. "Oh, right! I'm interested. Definitely interested. In you. _So_ much. I mean, have—"

"Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"Do you want me to kiss you?" She's grinning, and he can see her shaking and flushed in an attempt to restrain any further outright giggling.

"Maker's Breath, _please_ , before I make a bigger ass of myself."

"Well, it's a nice ass," she says, giving his complexion just enough time to turn a very bright shade of beetroot before closing the distance between them.

Before this moment, Alistair has only kissed one other person in his entire life, his friend, Lyna. They were drinking and being goaded by Zevran and Cailan. What he remembers of the incident, fogged from rum as he was at the time, was enjoying the warmth of Lyna's tongue but disliking her copious use of teeth and the sloppy-wet feel of it. Her mouth had veered from his often, once even going over his nose and he had pushed her away after that happened. Lyna seemed fine with this and announced that if she had not already preferred women that she definitely did now. Lyna was not a nice drunk.

This kiss with Elissa though, it's...He's never even dreamed of something like this.

From the very start, she has control and he is happy to give it. Tilting her head, she moves into his personal space. The hand on his wrist slides down to link their fingers together while the other cups his jaw. It anchors him as she slants her mouth to his.

Close-lipped at first, she presses gently, as if to let the heat of her sink into him. Her tongue comes after a moment, slipping past the seam of her lips to test his. Shuddering, he opens to her and the reward is well worth it.

She tastes sweet, like perhaps she ate fruit not long ago; sweet berries or pears. There is something else though, beyond that sweetness that he can't very well describe. It's like the way that she laughs or the color of her eyes. It's simply _her_ , and as is overwhelmingly the case with things concerning Elissa, it bewitches him.

"Mmm..." She draws back after a moment, how long he can't say, his head is spinning from both lack of air and arousal. The delight in that sound however, Alistair does not miss, nor the curl of her reddened mouth. "Not bad." In she leans again, but does not take his mouth. Instead, she skims the line of his jaw up to his ear. He shudders again and grasps her waist to keep himself upright.

"Do you have a bedroll in your pack?" she asks, nipping his earlobe. It sends a jolt down his spine straight to his lower belly.

"Do I have a bedroll?" He repeats it mostly because right now, his whole head has gone fuzzy. Who knew that his earlobes were that sensitive? He didn't.

The lovely tugging that she's doing with her teeth comes to an abrupt halt. Drawing back just enough so that she can look him in the eye and flag an eyebrow.

"Yes, a bedroll," she says, a bemused little smile taking hold of her lips. "You don't want to be on your back on the ground the first time. I'd grab mine, but that'd mean going back to my camp and listening to my sister and the rest of the group clucking at me over my impulses. Also, it's a walk and you're here _so_..." She shrugs.

That hits it for Alistair. Bedroll. She wants to...

Andraste, he must have gone to the Maker's side. He's never even had a dream where he is this damn lucky.

"Bedroll, right!" he says, all but jumping back (and tripping in the process), looking wildly about for Drust. He notes Elissa giggling again but he pays it very little mind, what with the mission that he has been given.

Still at the clover patch, Drust has stopped eating to take stock of what Alistair is doing. There's a certain glint to those big brown eyes, one that's both amused and judging.

"You brought me here, don't even," Alistair informs his horse as he rushes to get his bedroll.

Drust, never one to just comply, turns, angling himself so that he can't get the bedroll right away. He flicks his tail, pawing at the ground, while nudging his middle, where the big strap of his saddle is none too subtly.

Alistair rolls his eyes. "Fine, fine." And he unbuckles the saddle, removing it along with the blanket, bags, and most importantly, the bedroll. When he's finished, Drust leans over to nuzzle his hair. The horse version of a good-luck back pat.

"Don't go far!" he warns as Drust trots out of the clearing. "Your curiosity almost got me killed once today!"

His response is a whinny that seems to say, "True. But look what else it got you."

A fair point.

He turns back toward Elissa, who is kneeling at the pond's edge going through her own belongings. The sun is at its peak and beneath it, she glows gold at the edges.

A very, very fair point.

Elissa is drinking something when he returns with the bedroll. It's small, a vial maybe the size of his little finger, filled with dark purple liquid. Whatever it is, she makes a face after downing it all.

"What's...?" He motions with is shoulder to the vial that Elissa is tucking back into her pack.

She double takes. "Oh, the tincture? That's going to make sure that you don't put a baby in me." Her nose wrinkles as she glances back at her belongings. "Sour stuff."

The revelation that she's taking precautions to keep from becoming pregnant slams Alistair with the gravity of the situation. He is in the woods with what is really a total stranger about to lose his virginity to her. The bells of his self-consciousness start to ring.

 _Her sister tries to pound you into dust, literally, and now you're going to sleep with her? What's the thought process here? Are you that desperate?_

 _They could be bandits. Or kidnappers. Pretty faces can lie, have you learned nothing from all of those games of Wicked Grace with Anora and Lady Gyllianne?_

 _Do you really want this to be how your first time goes? Strange woman in the woods? How is this different from when Cailan tried to buy you a prostitute_?

"Alistair?" Elissa's voice and the light touch of her hand to his break through all of the panicky voices second-guessing in his head. Worry again lines her bright eyes, the kind that he doesn't doubt. She tilts her head and squeezes his wrist.

"We don't have to sleep together, you know," she says it quietly, gently even. Her thumb strokes the back of his knuckles. "Maybe your first time isn't this. Maybe your first time has roses and silk sheets and true love."

Landry had mocked Alistair with words very close to those once, after he politely turned away the prostitute that Cailan had snuck into his rooms. He had heard the gossip from his brother's idiot friends for months. How he wasn't much of a man or must not like girls. Most of it was ignorable; after all, the majority of Cailan's friends are complete and utter morons. Some of it had stung though, much as he hid it and as used to being the backend of the noble house's jokes that he is.

But Elissa isn't mocking him. She is not a pretty girl paid to smile and show up naked on his bed either. Nothing about her is being bought and she doesn't even know who he really is. What she wants from him is him. And he wants her.

He's the bastard Prince always backed into the shadows. Roses and silk sheets and true love are laughable for him. But he can at least have this.

Without a word, he drops the bedroll and pulls Elissa back into his personal space. He kisses her, probably not well, but he gives it his best. It is apparently enough, because while she's tense at first, surprised, a moment passes and she's melting into it. Melting into him. And more than anything in his life, Alistair is sure that this is the right decision.

She's grinning when the kiss ends, wide and earnest and sweet, it reaches up into those impeccable eyes. Oh yes, he is sure of this.

"Those are all nice, lovely things but I think that I'd settle just for you," he says. Elissa raises an eyebrow at that and he very nearly swallows his tongue. "I mean—you're not something _anyone_ just settles for. You are—you're beautiful and nice and—"

"Alistair."

"Yes?"

She wraps her arms around his neck, rubbing her nose to his. "You're much better at kissing than flirting. Let's do that instead."

He can't stop himself. " _Really_? I—"

Considerate as always, Elissa prevents further mortification. Her lips cover his firmly, though not roughly and now Alistair is the one that is melting. Happily too.


	3. Brother's Keeper

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Dragon Age. If I did we would all know where the hell our Wardens had run off to and Hawke wouldn't have gone to Weisshaupt.

* * *

Of all expectations laid before Alistair for this particular milestone, no one had mentioned how he would feel after, not really. Father had made an attempt or two to properly explain things, as had Wynne. Though between father flustering himself and Wynne flustering Alistair, the conversations that they had tried to initiate regarding sex and the emotions following had been rather stilted.

All Cailan, Zevran, and Lyna were good for were stories of conquest. Well, all right, Lyna had had advice sprinkled in there too, though Alistair doesn't know how intentional that was. As he gazes over at Elissa's flushed face, he doesn't really care. He just needs to buy Lyna a pint for that long-winded, red-faced demonstration she's shouted at all of her "idiot lads" in taverns of why crooking your fingers and making use of one's thumb is a must with a lady.

Elissa catches his gaze and smirks, leaning in to press a trail of close-lipped kisses down along his throat. Alistair all but purrs.

Yep, Lyna is getting a pint every time they go out together for the next forever.

A proper description for everything that he's feeling is beyond Alistair. Satisfied. Yearning. Happy. Jelly-boned. Tense. Apprehensive. Carefree So many contradictory things and not one good solid word to wrap it all up in. Though, he reckons as Elissa's mouth moves up to his, that wrapping his feelings up all neat isn't a necessity. Or probably even something that should be possible.

He would like to say it was perfect. But the memory of his first climax hitting before Elissa had gotten him out of his trousers is still fresh. _Burning_ fresh, hotter than a brand. Maker, even thinking of it now makes him want to bury his head back against her collarbone and die. Luckily, there's the memory of Elissa explaining what a refractory period is, distracting him with her teeth against his Adam's apple and guiding his hand between her thighs, that comes quick to temper his embarrassment.

Kissing her back, Alistair can't stop himself from grinning. So maybe perfect could be a little closer than he thought...

And as if she's read his thoughts, Elissa, once they've parted to breath, cards the unruly front of his hair. "Not bad at all for a virgin," she says with both fondness and just a hint of amusement. "Get some more practice in and you might even be able to give me a lesson."

Sweet Andraste, how he wants that to be true. More the hint that they might share a bed again than the giving her a lesson part. Not that that doesn't have its appeal. Alistair doesn't let that fantasy carry too far though; he doesn't hate himself that much. Instead he plays along.

"I don't know," he says, returning the attentions to her own hair. It slides like tendrils of ink through his fingers, soft and warm and thick. Alistair very nearly abandons the conversation to bury is face in it. He swallows, pushing back the urge, and attempts a smirk. "I rather liked taking orders. Could just be you though."

Elissa laughs. "Ooh, now. Let's add pillow talk to the list of satisfactory things about you."

It might be a joke but it still makes him glow. "Well, I aim to please."

"I could tell," she giggles with a simmering sort of glint to her eye. It's a look that sends pangs shooting through his chest straight down to his groin. He wants to be inside of her again with a kind of desperation that he thinks he ought to be ashamed of. But they've gone at it twice (three times if he were to count that first mishap) over the course of several hours and he is _sapped_.

The air between them hangs heavy. Alistair can't stop touching her hair and there are terrifying-but-unnamable thoughts and feelings clawing at his chest like madness. Across from him, Elissa only smiles, eyes half closed as she leans into the touch of his hand, oblivious to his dilemma.

Barking and the pounding of hooves against underbrush offer him an escape. At the noise, Elissa wriggles out of his embrace and sits up. Alistair follows suit, though he scrabbles to find something to cover himself with.

A Mabari along with a very large horse enter upon the clearing. The Mabari has a light brown coat with a black muzzle and feet. The horse is dappled silver on black, with a bright white mane, tail, and feathered stockings on each leg. Both go straight to Elissa who stands to great them with a smile.

"Oh, dear, Morrigan's gotten impatient and sent the cavalry to fetch me," she tells him with a laugh. The Mabari barks, as if to confirm this as Elissa scratches his ears. "Hey, whose side are you on now?" she asks the hound. "If remember correctly it was Morrigan and Velanna who detoured us through here in the first place so _they_ could look for ruins. It's only fair that I'm allowed my own fun." She turns to wink at him when she says that and Alistair's stomach somersaults against the rest of his innards. Another bark comes from the Mabari and Elissa sighs. "All right, all right. Go back to camp and let her infernal highness know I'll be there shortly. Go on, Ruff, good boy."

"Ruff?" Alistair finds himself asking as the dog trots back from whence it came.

Elissa laughs and shrugs a touch of color lighting up her face. "I was eight when he chose me," she offers as explanation. "At the time, it made perfect sense."

"Not disagreeing," he says. For a moment, he struggles, trying to refrain from what next leaves his mouth. "So is the horse 'Whinny' then?"

She groans covering her face with both hands; she's chuckling though and nods at him. "All right, I can see how I deserved that."

"That's not answering the question."

Elissa sticks out her tongue. " _No_. Her name is Eyseld." The corner of her mouth quirks. "I was seventeen when we were paired up. _And_ also the breeders named her."

"What a fortuitous event for you, Eyseld," Alistair can't help but continue to tease. Elissa takes his jabs with such easy humor; he has to wonder what exactly it is that she is bad at.

Other than naming pets, of course.

Courage to ask that is lost however, when he finds his clothes being tossed to him. Elissa grins down at him, hands on her hips.

"Not that I don't just adore the view and all." She winks when she says that and by Andraste, he could not echo that sentiment more perfectly.

Sadness swells in Alistair's chest as he heeds her, replacing that bubbly-contentedness that their activities had given him. He tries not to watch her dress even though he can feel her doing exactly that. It makes him rush to cover himself, as if Elissa hadn't already seen every inch of him.

Stop it, he tells himself, tucking his tunic into his breeches and then lacing them. His hands shake. You knew exactly what was going to happen. You lay together and you leave, that's how trysts work.

But what if I don't want a tryst?

Bit late for that.

In the midst of his self-loathing, Elissa's voice breaks through. He raises his head toward her. She's mostly dressed, boots, shirt, and breeches, her tunic is resting over her should like she means for it to be next with her jerkin waiting attention just at her feet. Her head cants to the side a moment, as if regarding him, and Alistair has to wonder if all of his thoughts were spoken aloud.

Or maybe they're just plain on his face.

Either or, a softness glimmers in her eyes and after a brief moment to snatch something from Eyseld's saddle horn, she's rushed the distance between them. Her hands are cupping his jaw and neck again, gently urging for his face to tilt up to her own. Alistair follows; because when, in the short span of their acquaintance has he had the power to resist her? Her tongue is still warm and sweet as it finds his but now it's also familiar and that in of itself is more thrilling than anything. He returns the kiss ardently, molding his arms around her waist, pressing in as close as physically possible.

"I have to go," she whispers once they part for want of air. Her words are whispered against his cheek. "I wish I didn't but…"

The sadness he's feeling does not fade, not exactly. But it does get… _lighter_. Just the knowledge that she'd like to linger with him, that he isn't alone in that want for her company. It makes a wonderful balm for…whatever it is he's feeling in this post-coital haze.

"I know," he says. He relinquishes his grip on her hip to card a hand through her hair one last time. Maker, does he adore her hair, it's nearly as perfect as her eyes. "Me too. I have…things to attend to."

She smiles at that, sad but not watery or weak. One last kiss, quick and soft is pressed upon his lips before she's breaking away, grabbing up her jerkin on the way to her horse. Alistair looks down and sees a rather weighty pouch in his hand, that upon investigation he discovers is packed with poultices.

"You're sure she wouldn't slip poison in here?" he asks, taking out what appears to him to be a stamina draught.

Elissa, who now has both tunic and jerkin on and is swinging herself into the saddle, laughs. "I like you," she says, as if such has been common knowledge for a millennia. Some of those happy bubbles fizzle back up into Alistair's chest. "She might not care for you, but my sister wouldn't upset _me_ for anything."

A very small part of him almost mentions how he can't really remember what it's like to have that kind of relationship with a sibling. The bitterness centered upon Cailan however, is washed away under Elissa's smile. So instead, he says, "Aren't I lucky for your protection then?"

Her response is a wink. There is another moment condensing itself into eternity after that wink, after Elissa grasps the reigns, preparing to urge her horse back to her camp and leave him behind. With her lower lip worried between her teeth, Alistair can see her struggling with the words for a proper goodbye while he does his best not to beg her to go. Finally, though, she smiles again.

"We'll see each other again," she says, nodding as if she has just made a choice. "Yes. We will. Very soon too I think. Safe travels until then." And then she shouts a word that he doesn't understand but that makes her horse gallop off into the words.

A wild impulse shoots through Alistair, one that urges for him to chase after her and demand just how she could possibly know that they'll meet again. It also craves to know just _when_ that will be (because it hopes that soon is very, _very_ , soon). It dwarfs the voice of common sense in him, trying in vain to remind him that she doesn't even really know who he is or where his from so his hopes should not rise even an inch.

He does none of that though. Alistair watches Elissa ride of with a smile that almost hurts his face for quite some time. He might have stood there until the sun went down then came back up if Drust didn't reappear and start nibbling the sleeve of his shirt, announcing that their ride to Denerim must resume.

#

Alistair's return is uneventful and quick. Taking the main roads now that there is no urgency (not that there really was to begin with), he stops at an inn that night, taking to the saddle again after the sun rises. Elissa and their afternoon in the grass slide to the forefront of his thoughts with every other hoof-beat, and his face aches from smiling by the time that the capital's great gates come into view early in the evening.

Just before the gates, two familiar riders come into view. They see him at the same time that he sees them, and he hears a cheerful whoop before they're galloping out. Because he isn't as impatient as Lyna and Zevran (especially, considering Lyna will most likely be yelling), he doesn't urge Drust to go any faster.

"Dirthara-ma!" Yep, Lyna is shouting as she pulls her hart to a stop. Perhaps to offset Nehn's shrill bellow as his reigns are tugged at first, but her voice doesn't lower when her mount quiets. Nor do her green-gold eyes soften up as she steers Nehn to flank Alistair's right and punch his arm. Lyna isn't any sweeter sober than she is drunk. "You idiot! Why didn't you tell us what you were going to do!? We would have helped! We would have asked around to see where Cailan went before just traipsing off after him!"

On his right, Zevran has much more gently slowed his horse, Rialto, and leans with an elbow propped upon the saddlehorn, chin upon his fist, to grin over at Alistair. "What my sweet cousin means to say is that we're very glad you've returned in one piece."

Alistair chuckles, rubbing his arm. "I appreciate the concern. Truly. Could do without the punching, but it's still appreciated."

Lyna rolls her eyes. "Ugh. Infants the both of you." With a little less disgust she tilts her head at Alistair, arms crossed over her chest like a pouting child. "You all right?"

"Andraste's sake," Alistair laughs. "Did you actually start believing there are werewolves lurking in the Brecilian like my twit of a brother?"

"Werewolves maybe not," Zevran interjects as Lyna's umber skin gets a very dangerous scarlet undertone about the neck and ears. "But a bear or two or a pack of wolves, well…"

"Also, the Brecilian is _ancient_ ," Lyna bites her words out, again looking like a child with her face puffed and arms crossed. "It is chalk full of wild magic and rot from before the Imperium collapsed in the south, maybe even before Arlathan. Not a place you go for a picnic with your sweetheart."

Well, he technically did _not_ have a picnic there. No. And Elissa isn't his sweetheart, not exactly. Though, Alistair has thought about her fairly constantly since they parted and those thoughts make every inch of him tingle.

"What on earth is on with you?" Lyna's voice cuts through burgeoning reflections of the way Elissa's mouth turned up so perfectly at the corners. Alistair almost jumps out of his saddle.

"What?" he demands; he feels a blush begin its creep along his jaw. Both Zevran and Lyna stare at him with raised brows. " _What_?"

"You were smiling," Zevran supplies.

Alistair does his very best not to panic. "And I'm not allowed to smile?"

"Not when I'm being cross with you, you aren't," Lyna says, ears twitching in annoyance.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mother Mahariel," he drawls. "Shall I go to my room without supper for backsassing you?"

"You might go without teeth if you aren't careful." The threat is an empty one and they both know it. As prickly and hotheaded as Lyna will act, she's also the daughter of diplomats and a shrewd diplomat in the making herself. More importantly, she is one of his dearest friends for going over ten years; she can think of much more horrible things to do to him than simply rendering him toothless.

So, Alistair placates her with a laugh, and nudges Drust with his knees. They can chat _and_ ride back into the city, after all. "Fine, fine, point taken. I shouldn't run off on hapless quests without my trusty Dalish allies. Can you ever forgive me?"

Lyna growls while Zevran chuckles and they both follow him at a leisurely trot back to the gates.

"Honestly," he says after some distance has been covered, "I'm only really mad about the fact that I've gone and missed Father's reaction to it all. What was it he told Cailan the last time he snuck off to the Red Lantern district? That he would be locked and barred in his rooms like a damsel until the Progress began? Would've like to have seen _that_."

"Good news awaits you then, my friend," Zevran says. "You'll still get to see that."

"What?!" He very nearly jerks Drust to a halt as he looks over at his friend. "I've been gone three days! Almost four! _How_ has father let Cailan stay at the Pearl for going on four days?"

"Lady Gyllianne's tried to pull him out quietly," Lyna says. "But that so-called Prince's Guard of his keeps chasing away all of her people." In her disdain, she spits at the gravel beneath their feet.

Zevran, eternally cheerful as he is, has a somber look about him when Alistair turns. The other man shrugs. "The king does not want to risk public embarrassment of the crown prince being dragged home from a brothel. Sanga, her people, and the district as a whole are as discreet as can be, but the citizens who would see him being carted off…"

It would be humiliating and not just for Cailan. Gossip would tear at Anora, the betrothed that his brother is to formally present over the Grand Progress that their father, Lady Gyllianne, and the Mac Tirs have been planning for the last five years. Teyrna Rowan is a reasonable and good-sensed woman with a hold on her husband that Andraste would envy, but there are limits to what her rationality can muster. Even when coupled with the king's orders and Anora's pleas.

It's as if Lyna reads his mind. "Erlina has talked Anora out of going to fetch him twice now," she says, a note or two of pity in her voice. "And Mother forbade me from going; she said that the Dalish Ambassador's daughter showing up would only fan flames."

"And also the Kendalls fool is there," Zevran adds. "You know she'll murder him if the doors close."

" _Vaughn_?" Alistair feels ill even saying it. "Cailan can't stand to be in the same room with that toad!" Or at least he hadn't back when he still _told_ his little brother what he was going to get up to.

Powerful as the Dalish Empire is in the southwest, as revered as the Canticle of Shartan is, and even as much as Fereldan owes them for their assistance back during the Rebellion years, there will always be human folk who can't get on with Elves. Malcontent arseholes, as Father or Teyrn Loghain would call them. The Kendalls of Denerim have always been amongst the more obvious of their kind and Vaughn is just nasty to boot. He crossed Lyna once, about three years back, calling her a knife-eared whore and she had understandably responded by doing her best to see that he ate mush until he did the world a favor and died. She had almost been sent back to the Dales and Vaughn was on a still active banishment from court.

Cailan is many things that aren't exactly respectable, but he's never been the sort to carry on with a racist mongrels. Least of all one who had bad blood with a friend as good to them as Lyna was.

Zevran, ever the pacifier, gives him a kind look. "Thomas, that new boy in Cailan's guard, is friends with Vaughn. Cailan is probably too drunk and deep pretty girls to notice anyone crashing his party."

That does help. Just a little, but it's enough that Alistair can fret over Cailan ruining his betrothal rather than him having of turned into an irredeemable human being. Zevran is going to get several pints later too.

"Lovely, so saving Cailan from himself _is_ still on my to-do list." Alistair sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. If the gates and the gilded signs didn't already proclaim that he had made it home, then the headache certainly would.

Lyna reaches over to pat his shoulder, the look on her tattooed face almost kind. For her it's tantamount to dewy eyes and a bear hug. Like Zevran's words though, it bolsters him quite a bit.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Closing his eyes, a plan tumbles together in the space between inhalation and exhalation.

"Zevran, does Kallian still owe you a favor?"

His friend shrugs, biting his lower lip. "I… _think_ so? After the last card game I am not so sure…"

"She owes you two," Lyna tells her cousin and shrugs when their eyes turn to her. "What? One of us needs to keep from being drunk off their arse when we play cards with the Tabrises."

"Yes, but when is that you?" Zevran demands, looking mildly insulted.

"When _can_ that be _you_?" she retorts.

Alistair waves a hand between the Elves as they attempt to glare holes through one another. "Can we focus, please? I need a cart with a false bottom and Kallian is the only person that I can think of who owns one _and_ might lend it to us."

Lyna stops scowling at Zevran to raise an eyebrow at Alistair. "What are you going to do with a smuggler's cart?" she asks.

"What I'm best at," he replies as the shadow of the city gates falls over them. "Saving Cailan from himself."

#

"You sure you're going to be able to do this?" he asks Lyna for the thousandth or so time since they've gone over the plan.

From where she sits across from him in the wagon, comes a frown along with a very rude gesture. "We go in, grab Cailan, and we leave. I don't think I can ruin even that simple of a plan."

"Even with that Kendalls rat in there?" the point swimming on the back of Alistair's tongue comes from the head of the wagon. Kallian Tabris, both the provider and the driver of their loaned mode of transport—and very shortly getaway—looks back over her shoulder, giving Lyna a questioning look. At the deepening of Lyna's frown and narrowing of her eyes, the other Elven woman shrugs, turning back to the reigns and steering them along the narrow back alleys toward the Pearl. "What? I'm not disagreeing; there's a reason we barred him from the Vhenadahl, after all. Just you know, with your temper…"

Lyna's ears are twitching and her nostrils have flared. "Give me another minute and I'll have all of my temper used up on—"

"Ladies," Alistair does not raise his voice but his tone is clear. "Save it for the next game of Wicked Grace, please."

He gets the expected grumbling and sour look from Lyna and Kallian as gracious as she usually is, returns her attentions to the road. Alistair breathes a small sigh because at least the first leg of this scheme hasn't fallen to shit. Yet.

Of course, just getting to the Pearl is the easy part. Getting, grabbing Cailan, and stuffing him into the wagon's false bottom, well… Legs two, three, four, and five are going to be more taxing. That much he was certain of before they came within sight of the brothel and he hadn't seen Hugh and Martin Yevalle positioned down the same alley that would take them to the Pearl's back gate. Watchmen, Cailan set up watchmen to guard his carousing.

"Fantastic," Alistair mutters, rubbing the space between his eyes.

"We could run them over," Lyna says, resting her arm over his shoulder. He knows she's joking, if only by half. Why couldn't Zevran be the slower rider with a conspicuous mount? Then Lyna could be off letting Lady Gyllianne know of the situation while he and Zevran snapped up his brother. But Zevran isn't as strong as his cousin is, and he's always so easily distracted by pleasures of the flesh that they'd never make it past the first winking prostitute. Plus aside from Alistair, he's the only person that Drust will follow. Lyna is whom he has and Alistair is grateful for her.

"They're minor nobility and youngest sons to boot. Who'd miss them?"

 _Most_ of the time, he's grateful for her.

He rolls his eyes back at her. "I don't know, Lyna, their parents?"

She snorts. "Clearly someone hasn't been paying attention to how familial affection actually works at court."

"I think I'm a firsthand expert actually. And Cailan will be too, once I get my hands on him."

"Ooh, you're almost cute when you're angry," his friend jokes, giving his scruffy cheek a quick pinch. "Careful though, that's _my_ role in this association."

Alistair wants to point out that apparently she's _also_ the greedy one. He refrains however, and makes a decision in regards to their blockade.

"Kallian, stay here, we'll signal you to bring the wagon in," he tells her as he climbs out and onto the cobblestones. Without bein prompted, Lyna follows.

"What's the signal going to be?" Kallian asks.

"Me or Lyna or both of us shouting your name and waving our arms."

The innkeeper nods as if this were the usual routine for a Tuesday night. Given some of the things that Cailan has roped them all into over the years, that might be a factually accurate reaction. Maker's Breath, does _that_ thought hit like a slap…

"We're just going to waltz in through the front doors, are we?" Lyna asks, keeping stride with him as they cross through the alleys to the main road.

"Remigold if you prefer," he tells her with a shrug. "Just promise me that you won't lose your temper and make this situation worse than it already is."

"That's insulting."

" _Lyna_."

"Fine." She sounds like he asked her to pretend to be an Andrastian or cover her ears. "I won't maim anything without your go-ahead. Is that sufficient?"

"Do you _promise_ not to maim anything without my go-ahead?"

"Dirthara-ma, _yes_ ," she hisses as they approach the Pearl's ornate red doors. "I promise."

"S'all I ask for," he says, far more cheerfully than he actually feels in this moment. Another deep breath and he pushes the door open.

The Pearl is the oldest brothel in Denerim and the best, or so people say. Alistair has never been one for... _that_ sort of thing but he knows a well-kept and welcoming building when he sees it. Sanga and her people keep the place tidy, even the bar, fresh flowers sit on every table, embers glitter on the hearth, and there's no awkward musky tang to the air, simply the faint aroma of the flowers and food being cooked in the kitchens. It's not unlike the feel of Vhenadahl on an evening. Except Shianni, Soris, and Kallian would never allow half-naked ladies/men to be sitting in the laps of their patrons. Not even on card night.

Or that is how the Pearl usually is whenever Alistair has to drop by and tell his brother that playtime is over. Tonight, Sanga's usually quite orderly house of flesh is in disarray. Furniture has been overturned, the smell of stale ale is abundant, and all of the prostitutes present look far less than amused with the patrons they're entertaining. All men (idiots) from the Prince's Guard, of course, and all drunk, loud, and insufferable. Except for Vaughn, Vaughn is just an arsehole who managed to weasel in.

Vaughn is also unfortunately the first to notice them.

"Ugh-oh, boys, look who it is!" the arl's son exclaims pointing towards the two of them and slopping half of his tankard on him in the process. The lady sitting with him looks disgusted but also afraid to move and _that_ gnaws at Alistair more than he can say. And if it bothers him that much he can only imagine the storm brewing up in Lyna.

"A promise is a promise, remember that," he whispers to his friend as the nostril flaring, ear twitching, tells of her rage resurface with gusto.

"Oh, dear," Thomas Howe, the one responsible for the previous arsehole being there, chimes in. "The king's bastard-baby-brother-babysitter. We're in trouble."

"And the Dalish cavalry, delightful," Vaughn agrees, with a look at Lyna that makes Alistair's skin crawl.

The rest of the bunch howls, as if it was the funniest thing ever said. Drunken, no good, high-born sots, every single one.

Before he can make a retort, Sanga, looking harried but covering it masterfully, appears with two of the Pearl's big burly guards. She smiles, though the edges of it are a bit frayed. He understands; putting up with his brother for four days will do that to a person. The fact that everyone at the palace doesn't have gray hair by now is nothing short of a miracle.

"Your Highness," she bows, as do her men, to the appropriate depth that his station calls for. "You have come to fetch your brother no doubt, allow me to show—"

"Not so fast!"

For a fool as big as is, Landry moves faster than a snake. It's a despicable quality for someone who is already so obnoxious to have. He looks like a beefier version of Cailan, Alistair often thinks. Blonde hair always in a copy of Cailan's preferred style, his dark eyes have never held the kindness that Cailan's can, and his brother has never been able to grow the type of beard that Landry wears. Often, Alistair has the inkling that Landry has fancied himself Cailan's _real_ brother and that's where all of the resentment comes from.

Or he's simply an giant arsehole. That's a very strong possibility as well.

"His Royal Highness," the 'royal' part comes out with a bite that Alistair cannot mistake, which is surely Landry's intent, "hasn't given word that he's ready to leave. We're his guard, once he's had his fun _we'll_ guard him back to the palace, as is our duty." His dark eyes narrow on Alistair, as if he's dirt; no there are worse things than dirt to be in those eyes. For example a bastard.

It should not sting. Not after all of these years. From birth all of the background noise at court has been about him. The scandal of the king bringing his shame to court and even blessing it with a title. Words whispered without a care when he's outside of the presence of people who it would be dangerous to anger with such talk, Father, Teyrna Rowan and Teyrn Loghain, and once upon a time, Cailan.

Sting it does though, if only for the fact that his brother _chose_ to keep a dog like this at his feet.

Lyna growls in that way that tells him that her temper is near the break. Flattered though Alistair is that she's but a hair's breath away from leaping upon Landry and putting of her fancy Dalish Dar'Misu through his tongue, he also knows that doing so won't help anything. Turning toward her, he holds up a hand and frowns. She frowns back with the kind of glare that should be able to melt the skin straight off of bone. Alistair has become acclimated to the fearsomeness of Lyna's scowls, though so he only raises an eyebrow to her, wordlessly reminding her that she had _promised_ this wouldn't become an episode. The glare continues for a few seconds before she turns it toward their onlookers, who unlike Alistair, are not conditioned, and they backpedal yards at once.

He would laugh, only when he turns back to Landry, the knight has pulled over a pretty blonde whose dress leaves little to the imagination. Landry grins. "Come on, Your Highness, maybe if you could spare a moment to be a man you wouldn't begrudge your big brother his own fun." And then he pushes her, none-too-gently toward Alistair. The lady yelps, wholly as unprepared to be pushed as Alistair is to see it and the choice is to catch her or watch her fall. Because Alistair isn't Landry and he catches her.

They all expect him to turn red, back away stammering, and run, Alistair knows that. It's always the way he's acted when having to come to the Pearl and gather up Cailan. Shy, stupid, virginal Alistair, abnormal in his refusal to leer at women or pay them to warm his bed. Really, it's almost shameful.

But he does not feel ashamed. Not today. Perhaps never again even.

"What is _wrong_ with you?!" He surprises everyone with those words, so fierce, hard, and coming from his lips without pause as he steadies the woman shoved at him, which he does without any awkwardness for her revealing clothes. His eyes remain on Landry the entire time, even when he gently ushers her behind him.

Something strange has crawled up Alistair's spine, something that is absolutely _done_ with being cowed before these buffoons for one instant longer. He steps forward, one hand on the hilt of his sword, and Landry is so baffled that he steps back.

"The king— _your king_ —wants the crown prince back in the palace." Alistair can scarce recognize his own voice. It's cold but the kind of cold that sears and withers flesh, like the snap of Wynne's stave when it casts frost. "The Royal Spymaster has been sending people to fetch you for days but you ignore them or chase them away. So, that leaves _your duty_ in the hands of the ambassador's daughter and myself. Now either you step aside, sober up, and allow me to carry on with that duty or pull your sword out and let's have this done."

Landry's jaw tics, as if he can barely keep it from dropping. It's more than their watchers-on can do, he hears plenty of gasping, and even a "Shivah'Dahl" whispered by Lyna. Alistair can't fault them, he's equally surprised to have said it, what's more is that he means it.

Alistair steps forward again, back straight and shoulders squared, directly into Landry's personal space. A bold move and perhaps not a bright one but he does not _care_. He is sick of this game and wants the cards out of his hands to end the match.

"Just keep in mind," he says in a voice that's only loud enough for the head of the Prince's Guard to hear, "that bastard I may be but I am still the king's son, and I know my father loves me enough that should your blade come out, _he_ certainly won't be minding the bastard part when he strips you of title, lands, and position in his court. Now _move_."

The words come out with a force that make the other man's eyes blow wide, if only for a scant moment. In a blink, Landry's face has gone purple and not unlike Lyna, his nostrils are flaring, albeit he looks more like a bull. Several tense seconds pass in which Alistair is certain that he will actually need to parry an incoming slash of Landry's steel. Those meaty fists curl and uncurl and his scowl has deepened to Lyna-proportions. Blood is going to be spilled here.

Landry moves. He mutters a few hundred, hot, horrible things beneath his breath and keeps his chin out, but Maker, he _moves_. The stalemate is Alistair's and _he_ is so shocked by this that he very nearly forgets why it happened in the first place. Lucky for him, Sanga, proficient as always, is there and she clears her throat. There is a bit of a bewildered cast to her face as she smiles on him, as well as one of gratitude.

She bows again, deeper than before in fact, and her men follow suit. "This way, Your Highness."

They get to the threshold of the hall that leads to the more personal back rooms of the Pearl when a very disbelieving voice exclaims, "So that's it? The bastard and the knife-ear win?"

It's Vaughn. Of course it is.

Alistair sighs so heavily that his whole body sags with the exhale and he stops. So far. They had gotten _so_ far. He turns to find that Lyna has already pulled her dagger and all of the men, Vaughn's idiot friend, Thomas, included, have backed away as if he carried the wasting sickness. Lyna looks up at Alistair with large eyes that dance with sparks of rage. It's really the closest that Lyna Mahariel will ever come to begging and Alistair supposes he can only be flattered that she would consider acknowledging him first.

" _Fine_ ," he tells her. "But nothing permanent!" Alistair stops her before she can make her dive at Vaughn. She frowns at him but he frowns right back. "I mean it. Keep it the kind of rough that'll heal within a few weeks and doesn't leave a scar. You aren't being shipped back to Halamshiral and leaving me and Zevran on our own."

Lyna scoffs. "Pft. Leave you and Zevran on your own? Creators no. How would you lads survive?"

"Yes, yes, Mother Mahariel, please make sure we don't find out." He turns back to Sanga who watches with a single brow raised but says nothing. She is an incredibly sensible woman, Sanga. Down the hall she leads him, followed by the shrieks of Vaughn and the whump of Lyna's fists connecting with his flesh.

Cailan took the largest room for himself of course, and Alistair is not even a little bit surprised to find his elder brother sprawled across the bed, snoring, with three ladies-of-the-evening draped around him. Sometimes he thinks that his brother would be far better suited to Orlais, what with his penchant for excess. And bad decisions; can't forget that.

At the sound of the door opening the women are alert and sitting up. Cailan keeps drooling into his pillow. Sanga makes no move to rouse him and with a finger to her lips motions for her girls to leave. They obey her at once, a little surprised and a little relieved by the looks that they wear as they gather their things and tiptoe out. Once they've gone Alistair steps into the room and inspects Cailan's clothes, pulling the heavy coin purse from his belt, and placing it in Sanga's hands along with his own.

"For the trouble and damage," he tells her not bothering to lower his voice overmuch. The room— _and_ Cailan—smell like elderflower wine. Drunk Cailan is almost impossible to rouse; Zevran has jumped on his brother's chest after he'd passed out drunk more than once and that never even got a whine. "And I'm sure if more is required all you need do is send a letter about it to the king. Discreetly, of course."

"Of course," Sanga agrees with a smile that seems almost genuine. She nods to his brother. "Will Your Highness require any assistance?"

Alistair shakes his head. "He's all that I came for, my lady. I'd appreciate you telling Ser Landry to gather his armor though, and I might be stealing a sheet and going out your back door."

"As you wish, Your Highness." And she bows one last time before she and her men disappear, probably back to the main parlor to watch the mess Lyna's making of Vaughn.

Alistair looks at Cailan and sighs. He looks so peaceful when he sleeps, untroubled—n _ot being troublesome_. It doesn't say anything good about things between them he thinks, if unconscious is how he prefers his brother. That can be dissected later, for now there is an escape finish off.

With little trouble and few movements or murmurs from Cailan, Alistair has him rolled up in the sheets. It's considerably more effort to move him out of the room. A weak lay-about Alistair is not but his brother is the same size and weight as he is, so it's not exactly easy to hoist him about. He manages though, getting Cailan's snoring dead weight over his shoulder. Going back out into the hall he finds Lyna awaiting him, picking her nails with her boot knife.

"He's not dead or crippled?" he asks as they walk towards the back exit.

"I promised didn't I?" she retorts, sounding rather cheerful.

"That you did," he agrees. "Sorry for doubting you."

"S'all right, nothing a few rounds won't soothe," she tells him and Alistair chuckles.

In the alley behind the Pearl, they find Kallian already waiting with her wagon. Against the building itself sit the Yevalle brothers, eyes closed. Alistair looks between the innkeeper, the guards, and Lyna. Kallian shrugs.

"Relax, I didn't run them over," she says, hopping from her perch to pop the wagon's false bottom. "They just had a nip of some wine with a touch of Crystal Grace in it. A few hours and they'll be up bothering folk again. One hell of a headache too but definitely mostly fine."

"You know what? I don't even care," Alistair says. With Lyna's help he eases Cailan into the false bottom, arranging him so that he won't suffocate himself or hit his head on the paneling should he come to on the ride back to the palace. "Our job was him. Now let's get him home and go to bed. Rescue missions are exhausting."

"I hear that," Lyna says, clapping him on the shoulder as they close the wagon up and take their earlier seats.

#

Getting back to the palace goes without a single hitch, which is a surprise and a relief. With their knowledge of the Royal Palace's numerous secret passages and spots that are usually left empty in the night, Alistair and Lyna manage to navigate all the way to Cailan's bedroom without seeing a single soul. They dump him on his bed without pause.

"We should p-probably tell his manservant to—to c-come take care of him," Alistair pants after they've gotten him on the bed. Carrying his brother up several flights of stairs and through so many back corridors was _not_ a light task.

Lyna, who is sweating and breathing just as hard as he is, nods. "Or we could let him vomit all over himself like the selfish piglet he is so he wakes up feeling half of what we went through."

"That does sound tempting, doesn't it?"

Both of them jump at the sound of a new voice, familiar as it is. In the doorway stands Lady Gyllianne in her dressing gown, a bemused smile on her face. His father's Spymaster and Royal Mistress is a lovely woman going into her late forties though she appears much younger than that. Only a few pearly streaks run through her rose-gold hair and they show elegance rather than age. Her wrinkles are few and her gray-green eyes only grow sharper with each day.

"Considering it's you, Alistair, I'm almost ashamed to ask but the extraction was discreet, yes?" She turns from frowning at Cailan's lumpy, sheet-rolled form, to smiling at him.

He nods. "Yes, ma'am."

"Wonderful," she closes the distance between them just enough to lay a fond hand on his cheek. He wouldn't call the bond that he shares with Lady Gyllianne motherly; she's never been the mothering type. She is a fair teacher however, and never leaves him undefended or unpraised when he's deserving. And she definitely likes him more than Cailan, if only for the fact that he gives her fewer headaches.

"I will let your father know the mess is tidied up and have Cailan's servants tend to him," she says patting his cheek once more. To Lyna she offers an equally grateful smile. "And start spinning a story. I think it will have to be bandits lurking about the red lantern district. Andraste help me, I'm going to have to convince the gossips that Cailan fended something off other than responsibility. I should just retire now."

"The kingdom would certainly fall apart, my lady," he tells her.

Lady Gyllianne laughs. "There is some truth in that jest, my dear. Get some rest, both of you; you've more than earned it."

Neither of them need to be told twice, without pause or a look back at his brother, Alistair and Lyna make their way out of his quarters. They find Zevran waiting in the foyer of the royal wing, arms crossed and grinning as he leans against a statue of King Calanhad.

"Disappointed that bandits will get all the credit for all of your favorite nobleman's bruises, cousin?" he asks of Lyna.

She scowls. "How did you...?"

Zevran snorts. "Lyna, sweet, Lyna, have you met you? I am only surprised that he is not dead. Alistair's doing I am sure."

"Oh Alistair did some things," Lyna says, her usual temper is sidetracked and she grins up at him. "He told Landry to duel or sod off. And the big bastard sodded off."

The other elf's eyes widen, and he claps Alistair's shoulder. "You didn't! _You did_! Ha-ha!"

"He turned the same color as that awful beet soup they served at the Anders Ambassador's state dinner," Lyna tells him, almost giggling. "I thought for sure that all of his blood would start spraying out of those big ears."

" _I_ expected to be stabbed," Alistair says.

She shrugs. "That was a possibility I was prepared for too. Would have preferred the blood-out-of-the-ears scenario though."

"Wouldn't we all?" Zevran laughs. He grins up at Alistair and pats his shoulder yet again. "We should celebrate this you know."

Up go Alistair's hands. He loves Zevran; really and truly, he's one of the best friends that a body could ask for. However, he never seems to know when a time is unripe for revelry. Not always a bad thing but Alistair's been riding for days and all he wants is a bath and his own bed.

"Drink a pint for me, I'm going to sleep," he announces.

Zevran's nose wrinkles, though in an affectionate sort of way. "Braska! Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Passed out drunk in his bed and hopefully not going to be riled up any time soon," Alistair answers with ease. "Or at least until tomorrow afternoon because I _don't_ intend to roll out from under my blankets until then at the very latest. My saddle sores insist."

"Ah well then, tomorrow we drink to your supremacy and Lyna's power of will," Zevran says. "Sleep well, my friend."

"Goodnight, Zev." Alistair smiles and waves already heading across the hall to his own quarters. "Goodnight, Lyna."

"Goodnight, Alistair." And they too make their way back to their rooms in the embassy wing, or so he assumes. Unlike his brother, Alistair honestly never worries much about what his Dalish friends get up to when he isn't about, even Zevran.

A bath has been drawn, he finds, once he makes it through the outer foyer of his rooms. Both because one of the maids scurries past him and because there's a slight camphor scent to air, telltale of his favorite oil. Without pause or care, he peels his clothes away, dropping them as he goes, like a trail into his private bath and it's large, sunken-stone tub. The water is hot, almost too hot, but still very welcome to his body that's been hard on the road for nearly four days. It's the Maker's side really and truly.

Heavenly as a soak is, Alistair doesn't let himself linger; water cools and his bed is much softer. He scrubs, he stands, rubs a towel over his body, and fights his already too-heavy eyelids while pulling on the sleeping clothes laid out for him. Stumbling back into his bedroom, he has his pants on and the shirt halfway over his head when he notices company is sitting at the chair by the window.

"Father!" He tries not to yelp, really he does. But these last few days have been long and he's just barely awake. Also, he assumed that his father would be locked in his chambers by Lady Gyllianne under the explanation that he can't actually yell at Cailan until his heir has sobered up enough to hear him.

Father smiles with apology. "Goodness, Gyllianne was right; you're about to fall over."

Alistair shrugs but doesn't deny it. Instead he asks, "Is something wrong? Please do _not_ tell me that he was faking that drunken stupor and has run off again." After all of that hauling up all of those stairs, Alistair will commit fratricide and regicide in one fell swoop.

As if he reads his mind, Father grunts, blue eyes darkening just a shade or two. "If that has in fact happened, dear boy, I'm afraid you're going to have to be the next king because I'll be strangling the life out of your brother."

Joking as he knows Father is and as tired as he is, a part of Alistair's stomach still bottoms right out at the mere thought of the crown actually passing to him. He shivers. "Whoa. Let's not get crazy shall we? Have we considered chains? Some nice gold ones, maybe?"

Father actually laughs. "That's called the crown, Alistair. And I'm afraid of shackling him to it just yet."

"Mmm, fair point."

Another laugh, softer, and followed by a sigh. For a man in his fifties, Father has aged well, or so the court is always saying. And they aren't wrong, he is still strong-shouldered and able to wield a sword with precision, the crown still sits regally atop his white-gold head, and the nation is strong in his grasp. But then few courtiers ever see Maric Theirin as he is now, crownless and unkempt in his dressing gown, frazzled with dark circles beneath his eyes from putting up with the antics of a twenty-five year old son who behaves as if he were fifteen.

While Alistair struggles to say something that isn't a bad joke—Lady Gyllianne has always said that if anyone doubted Alistair's jaw, nose, and smile as marking him for Maric's son, then his sarcasm would surely convince them—Father sighs again and stands. He crosses over, reaching out to cup Alistair's head in his hands. Twenty years old and of an equal height and Alistair still feels like small boy when Father smiles and cards his fingers through the cropped strands atop his head. He never feels more loved either.

"Chasing after him isn't _your_ responsibility, you know," Father says after a few moments. "Getting him in line and molding him into a man worth wearing the crown is mine. I don't want you burdened with my responsibilities, son."

Alistair shrugs, trying not to glow overmuch with pride. "Well, according to Teyrn Loghain and Teyrna Rowan, you need help sometimes."

"Hah," Father chuckles. "What friends they are. Fine, you're an excellent help, but put yourself first a bit more, yes? A day will come when Cailan doesn't have either of us, best he learn to pick himself up sooner rather than later."

"Yes, Father," he says.

"Good." One last ruffle of his hair with a quick kiss to his forehead and Father takes his leave. "To bed with you, son of mine, lest you collapse and bring shame upon the house."

"More than falling off a horse three times sober?" he calls after him.

"Maker's breath, Loghain... _Goodnight_ , Alistair."

Chuckling to himself, Alistair obeys the command and drops onto his bed. In the thin moments between shutting his eyes and total unconsciousness, the warmth of his blankets brings to mind the last time he felt so content. He grins against his pillow while blue eyes and soft lips follow him into his dreams.


	4. Crossing Paths Again

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Dragon Age. I weep about this fact constantly. Enjoy the read!

* * *

"Where's your head, boy?! Keep the shield up!"

Duncan, the Royal Armsmaster, is usually a quiet sort of man. He smiles, demonstrates, and explains the mechanics of the maneuvers that he's attempting to impart with endless patience. Alistair has always liked him if only for the last part; questions are something that he's quite never run out of, especially during the beginning of his training.

When sparring begins though, Duncan turns into a bear, roaring with orders. For most pages and squires that train at the palace, this second Duncan is the bane of their existence. His methods work though; no one can argue that, and Alistair for one has never minded bear-Duncan. Hence, he continues to meet and spar with his former teacher over two years since his formal training was at an end.

Though on mornings like this one, where bear-Duncan is particularly growly, he does question that impulse. He still listens however, and brings his shield up to angle and block both the sword coming down and the dagger going for his ribs. Growly or no, the man has sensible advice to impart. And Alistair has been reaping that advice for years.

Keeping the shield up, he puts his shoulder into it, sending Duncan stumbling back. Alistair holds the momentum of the charge and slices at his trainer in a downward arc. Duncan parries that with ease but his dagger doesn't do much to fend off the press of his shield, especially now that Alistair is thinking of covering his side, so he follows the parry with a kick, aimed to knock him back a pace or two. Familiar as he is with Duncan's style and the intense speed with which he executes his moves, Alistair is prepared for this. Barely, because, Maker, Duncan is fast.

The kick is pushed back with the shield and Alistair charges again, knocking the dagger from Duncan's grasp with a hard upward thrust. The armsmaster ducks and rolls to retrieve it—the man is like an eel—and he rushes to stay on top of him, hacking down. Duncan meets Alistair's swing with crossed blades while on bended knee. He pushes, Alistair bears down, and the blunted edges of their practice weapons spark beneath the pressure. In the end, Alistair's weight is more than Duncan's can hold against and he has to yield. Without pause, Alistair presses in and puts his sword to the armsmaster's throat.

"Yield?" he asks.

Duncan releases his own blades, putting up his hands, "I yield. This match is yours, lad."

"Why'd you warn him about the shield?" their audience, which consists only of Jenna Mac Tir this morning, asks as Alistair offers Duncan an arm up. She cocks her head to the side, gray eyes bright. "You would have had him then."

With their parents spending just as much time in Denerim as they do in Gwaren, the Mac Tir girls have all been like sisters to him to some degree. Anora is the guarded, disapproving, elder sister, of course, Mairyn is the quiet, bookish one ( _until_ you ask her about something she's interested in, then you might as well just cut your ears off and hand them over), and Jenna is the little sister who always has a comment or question. _So many_ comments or questions.

But Alistair knows well he's had plenty of chatty moments, especially with Duncan. And Duncan, just as he always has with Alistair, answers her with infinite patience.

"I am a teacher, it is my duty to teach," Duncan tells her as her sets his practice weapons away and pulls off his round, padded sparring helmet. "Though," his sharp amber eyes flick over to Alistair, "there may be something to say about a student being too old for that sort of beginner's mistake and not deserving the warning, my lady."

Alistair, who has been drinking/dousing himself with water from a nearby bucket—Cloudreach's final days are on hand and they are positively hot and promise an even warmer summer—grins back sheepishly. "Sorry, Duncan," he says, wiping his brow clean of sweat and water. "I've been...preoccupied as of late."

A rueful chuckle is Duncan's response. "Yes, I imagine so, what with the Grand Progress being underway in just a few more days."

He nods but the Progress has very little to do with being preoccupied, in all honesty. It's important and a whole big to-do of course, but Alistair's part will be small. The people will be focused on his father, brother, Anora, Teyrna Rowan, and Teyrn Loghain; the important members of the court.

It also isn't even because Cailan has not spoken to him since he and Lyna carted him out of the Pearl. Alistair is used to his brother pouting after he's been thwarted, it's simply par for the course.

No, what keeps taking up Alistair's spare thoughts, his not-so-spare thoughts, and all of his dreams is that balmy afternoon spent in the grass beneath the Brecilian's dappled shade. Bright blue eyes and soft black hair have been haunting him without relent. In particular, her parting words often come to mind and Alistair is half-mad between wondering when he'll see her again and trying to convince himself that she didn't mean it.

"Can we please talk about anything but that stupid parade?" Jenna asks with a low, piteous whine that makes both Alistair and Duncan laugh. Her nose wrinkles. "Bad enough they're dragging us to march along like dandied up toy soldiers."

Out of the Mac Tirs' three children, Jenna is the youngest and the least like her parents. Not to say that her parents' cleverness didn't pass along because 'dunce' is the last description that Alistair believes anyone would ever peg her with. At barely sixteen, she knows a bit of everything; sewing, knife-fighting, history, and even a fair amount of carpentry. But where Anora thrives on political politesse and Mairyn is out to reinvent the wheel, Jenna is content to hole herself in the library. Nothing has ever held her attentions long enough for it to become a passion, and her parents have recently begun to take note of this aimlessness. Note and dislike. Coupled with her disdain for court and the mounting pressure from Teyrna Rowan and Teyrn Loghain to settle upon a path, the Progress is Jenna's nightmare.

"Don't worry about it so much, Scrapper," he tells her, going over to the balustrade that Jenna's perched herself on and tugging at one of her pigtails. "Folk will be too busy fawning over your big sister and my big brother to give us pause."

It's been often said that Jenna is the spitting image of her mother when she was young; confident and calm with kind gray eyes and thick waves of brown hair always trying to escape braids and ties. Most of the time, Alistair thinks that the comparison is fair, even if 'calm' is a stretch for the youngest Mac Tir, but it all goes out the window when she pouts. It is impossible for him to conceive of Teyrna Rowan, with her strong sword arm and constant grace, ever sticking out her bottom lip while she glares down at her shoes as her youngest child is so often want to do and does at this moment.

"Folk won't, no," Jenna says. "Mother and Father though…"

He chuckles. "I suggest sticking to Mairyn's side like a burr then and asking her to explain whatever she's working on. They'll either be preoccupied with listening to her prattle and forcing themselves to stay awake, or they'll excuse themselves and make a break for it."

"Yeah, but the down side to that is _I'll_ have to listen to Mairyn prattle," she points out.

Chuckling, Alistair gives a shrug as he tugs on the other pigtail. "Sorry, Scrapper, you can't have it all. Which is worse though; listening to Mairyn or being berated by your parents?"

Those already big gray eyes grow even wider. "That's—that's like asking a Chanter if they revile Hessarian more than Maferath."

He can't stop from laughing despite all of the sympathy that he feels for her plight. Really, he can't, so he stands still while Jenna's face grows red and she slaps his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Duncan shake his head with a rueful sort of smile.

"Maker guide you, Your Highness," the armsmaster says with bow. "I hope to see you in a few of the tournaments on the road at the very least—provided you remember what your shield is for." Alistair sighs knowing he deserved that and Duncan's beard twitches with a suppressed laugh. He nods to Jenna who is still half-heartedly batting at Alistair's arm like she were a cat and it were a twine ball. "And you as well, my lady."

"And you, Armsmaster," Alistair says as his teacher takes his leave. Jenna echoes him as she gives up her vendetta and moves to stand.

She looks positively mournful as she says, "Speaking of Mairyn, she'll be arriving soon. And the Couslands. There's that silly dinner tonight." She sighs and then a glimmer of excitement pops into her eyes as she looks up at him, "Do you think that I could get out of it if I said I had stomach cramps? Ooh, what if I vomited at the table? They might think I had the plague. _That_ would get me out of the Progress!"

Entertaining as Jenna's flights of fancy (mania) can be, Alistair is still full up on all of the excitement Cailan caused him at the month's start. With a gentle hand atop her head, he both braces her and takes her attention.

"Jenna, _please_ stop channeling Cailan," he begs. "You're not a good enough actress to fake a sneeze let alone life-threatening illness. Also vomiting at the dinner will make other people vomit and just..." He shudders. " _No_. Also, if you do that I will tattle."

"Traitor," she grouses.

"For Cook's Redcliffe rarebit and roast lamb with mint sauce I will sell you to Tevinter," he tells her with his straightest face. "Don't test me."

For a moment he thinks that he's convinced her that he would in fact do that, Jenna's eyes get so wide again, but then she giggles and loops an arm around his waist.

"Mother probably wouldn't fall for it anyway," she says with a wistful sigh as they make their way from the outdoor practice area. "Then Father would be cross. Worse, Anora would be cross."

Alistair shudders again. "Yep. And she's already on edge with the Progress, wedding plans, and dealing with Cailan. I would _not_ touch that lever."

"You'd never find the pieces of me."

"I wouldn't even dare to look."

Another sigh shakes Jenna's slight frame. "I better go start reading up on water-clocks or big hammers or whatever Mairyn's been studying with the Dwarves, then." Her other arm slips around Alistair as she gives him a quick hug and then starts for the library. He catches the contemptable face she's making along with the gagging noise as she goes. "Ugh. Andraste, _please_ don't let her try to teach me calculus again."

Alistair watches her go and, laughing quietly to himself. Maybe it's a tad cruel, but it is always heartwarming for him to know that he isn't the only "baby" getting guff in one way or another thanks to the shadow of an older sibling. Out of his love for his little-sort-of-sister, he sends his own prayer to Andraste that Mairyn will indeed keep her mathematical journals within storage. Poor Jenna needs all the help that she can get.

#

Before the Orlesian occupation, the Tabris family, like most of the very few and far between Elves to be found outside of the Dales, were merchants. Alistair doesn't know the full story, he's actually heard quite a few, but the tale he likes best involves Kallian, Soris, and Shianni's Great-Great-Something beating the-then Arl of Denerim at a card game and getting a good block of the city as her winnings. The Arl had tried to renege on his part of the deal but then King Vanedrin had insisted that he pay up and formally gifted the Great-Great-Something with the land. From there, that Great-Great-Something used her mercantile connections to set up an inn, several, shops, and hence, the Vhenadahl district, the most thriving market in all of Ferelden, and the only place outside of the Dales where groups Elves ever made a permanent settlement, was born.

During the rebellion, the Tabris' had not forgotten what King Vanedrin had done, even under the strain of Orlais' occupation; Orlesians are ever skirmishing with the Dalish, so there was a special disdain for the Vhenadahl during those years. The Tabrises had run smuggling for the rebel army, and Adaia Tabris, Kallian's mother, had even spearheaded a guerrilla movement to hamstring the Orlesian forces within the capital's gates. She'd done a fine job of it too; none of the humans and Elves that she had lead were ever caught. Father had offered Adaia a Teyrnir in exchange for all of her service but she'd apparently laughed off that offer and asked him only to spend most of his gold at the market she and her new husband were rebuilding.

And that's the long and short of how Alistair always drinks at the Vhenadahl. Duty _and_ the fact that he is fascinated by the large, painted tree that the Tabrises built their inn around. It is both soothing and lovely, in his humble opinion.

"So Cailan's still tower bound, I take it?" Kallian asks as she sets down the tray of ale she's brought over to the table that he, Zevran, and Lyna occupy. That night the King and his inner circle—which consists of Lady Gyllianne, his sons, the Mac Tirs—will be welcoming Teyrn Cousland to Denerim for the beginning of the Grand Progress. With no need to be present until very early in the evening, Zevran had cajoled Alistair and Lyna that they needed to unwind. It hadn't taken much; the atmosphere in the palace has been a bit sour, what with Father still ready to flay Cailan alive, Cailan sulking, and Anora cold shouldering everyone because she's so (understandably) incensed, Alistair would rather be anywhere but home right now. Especially if it has drinks.

"Sort of," he tells her. "He's allowed to go where he wants in the palace now, but leaving it until the Progress begins...I do not see that happening."

Kallian passes the mugs out and then joins them, taking the chair next to across from Alistair and next to Zevran, wincing with his story. "Ooh." She clucks her tongue. "Bet that has Goldilocks chaffing something fierce."

"If looks could sour milk, the palace would be well underway to being a fine cheese dairy," Alistair says before taking a long drink. Lyna pats his back.

"I still can't believe that the King dismissed the Prince's Guard," Kallian says. "I mean, I'm not complaining, even though, I suppose, the business woman in me _should_ since they won't be wasting their coin in my fine establishment. But..."

"The polite thing to say is that they were returned to their families," Zevran points out. The smirk that he wears is positively wicked. "To 'enjoy the Grand Progress with their loved ones' as it were. The letters that Lady Gyllianne sent to their parents though..." He shrugs. "They are well aware that the king will not be welcoming them back to court well into the foreseeable future."

"I like that future," Lyna says. "We need to keep it. All costs, Blood Magic, and virgin sacrifices included."

"Good luck finding one of those in this city," Kallian says. Then she grins and nods to Alistair. "Present company excluded, of course."

He rolls his eyes but says nothing. His mind however, wanders yet again to way Elissa sighed when he was inside of her. Maker, that sound was sweeter than any music he's ever heard, and the feel of her around him...

There's a telltale twitch in his trousers and Alistair has to make himself think of Wynne reciting nursery rhymes because he is going to need to walk away from this table relatively soon.

"So are you excited for the Grand Progress?" Kallian is asking Zevran. Well, he supposes that she's asking all of them, considering her emerald gaze shifts around the table.

Lyna snorts. "Considering that it's going to have all of the fun of court wrapped in riding for days plus commoners alternating between grousing about the nobility and clamoring to see them...I think I might rather try bedding a man."

"Same," Alistair says while Kallian laughs.

"So cynical the both of you," Zevran says, shaking his head. " _I_ for one will be glad for the change in scenery. It will be a marvelous thing, I'm sure, to see the wide bounty and beauty of Ferelden."

A thin auburn brow rises. "You've got a list ready for all of the places you want to fuck someone, don't you?" Kallian asks.

Zevran grins back at her. "And one with a few faces I've had in mind for some time too." He wriggles his eyebrows in a way that Alistair supposes that his friend thinks is alluring. "We could start with the farewell to Denerim, yes?"

" _No_ ," Kallian says with a saccharine smile, one of her hands reaching up to push Zevran out of her personal space via his forehead. "We've been through this, Zev; you need to be shorter, stockier, and much, much, _much_ beardier to get yourself up my skirt."

"You're cruel," Zevran tells her, playfully of course. Or at least Alistair hopes. Sometimes with Zevran, given the unfortunately abundant knowledge that he has of the Elf's preferences in the bedroom, it can be hard to tell when he's joking about sex or he's genuinely flirting. That line is a blurry one. "Tell me, Kallian, what can a Dwarf do for you that I cannot?"

She does not miss even a beat. "Make the space between my thighs burn for days just by putting his face there."

"And on _that_ note, it's time for us to go." Lyna circumvents the Dwarves vs. Elves argument that's about to take place, as always happens when sex is brought up around Kallian and Zevran. She downs the rest of her ale and stands. "Can't be late for the Couslands' welcome dinner."

Alistair follows her example and lays the coin for their rounds down upon the table's center. "We really can't." It isn't a lie; Teyrn and Teyrna Cousland _are_ arriving at the palace that evening and he at least, needs to be present to greet them. Preferably not dressed in the plain, somewhat dusty clothes that they use to blend in outside of the palace.

Highever is set to hold the Grand Progress for two weeks at the peak of Midsummer, to honor the service that both the Couslands gave to the crown during the war and after. As an another honor Father requested that they be part of his personal entourage during the Progress itself, along with the Mac Tirs. Both Teyrnirs flanking the crown will show solidarity to the nation. Plus, according to castle gossip, it will allow the Teyrn and Teyrna the opportunity to test their heir, who has remained in Highever, and see how well that he prepares for the Progress' landing.

"Fine, fine, run off on me," Kallian jokes. "I need to get back to work anyway, before Shianni gets cranky."

"There is a time when she is not cranky, your cousin?" Zevran smirks again as he too finishes up and gets to his feet. Kallian looks pointedly at Lyna then back at Zevran cocking her head. He laughs and shrugs. "Hmm, fair point."

"Thought so," she says, gathering the coin and putting it into her belt purse. She waves, already heading back down the stairs to the main floor. "Be safe while you're out there hobnobbing in the countryside."

Alistair laughs. "Careful, you're starting to sound as if you _like_ us, Kallian."

"'Course I do," she calls over her shoulder. "You lot might be idiot nobles but you're _my_ idiot nobles. Plus you tip good and I know where you sleep."

Zevran and Lyna laugh at that too, and still chuckling they make their way home.

"I can't believe you actually _want_ to go on Progress," Lyna says to Zevran once they're out onto the street. "You're the only one of us who could get out of it."

Even with his back to them, Alistair can feel her sharp nose wrinkling. He can feel Zevran shrug in response too.

"You never look on the bright side of things, Cousin," he tells her. "It could be the most thrilling event if you allowed it to be."

"That's like saying be happy that all your sheep ran off because now you can get druffalo."

"Not really—"

This conversation (argument) is not a new one, and as he has learned to do over the years, Alistair simply tunes his friends out. It's easy enough to do in the market, with everyone and everything bustling about. Call it foolish but Alistair does genuinely love this city. Birthplace of Andraste or no, Denerim is _alive_ , the people here work hard, work together, and they for the most part seem quite happy. Part of that is due to the legacy that his father has solidified since driving Orlais from the borders, but it's more than that. It's all the Elves who have made the Vhenadahl and therefore Ferelden their home, the Surface Dwarves who keep things between Ferelden and the Thaigs fresh, the Antivan merchants who've nestled in from when Cailan's mother, Queen Giuliana, arrived with her country's trade orders, and the Ferelden natives who _could_ be spiteful about it but have not. That is Denerim, the true heart and soul, and Alistair will miss it while he is away.

In his moment of indulgent patriotism, Alistair's eye is caught by a flash of black as he surveys the specialty stalls to the east. Waves of black. And Maker, he does not understand how he knows but his heart is certainly lurching up into his chest, before the shock of black revolves and he sees _her face_.

Elissa is smiling, just like in all of his dreams, wide, beautiful, perfection, as she speaks to someone that he can't see through the crowd, because she towers above so many it. Probably that sister of hers which is one part of seeing her again that he hadn't bargained for but he doesn't care. Alistair would gladly deal with five Morrigans if it only meant that he might kiss Elissa again.

Andraste preserve, even for him that's a sad...

But Alistair ignores the voice in him that's telling him this, as well as the startled exclamations of Lyna and Zevran, and runs toward Elissa. It's a task much easier thought of than accomplished; he didn't count on the crowds being so thick and even less of the wagon line that blocks his path. In one swoop, he downright loathes Denerim's bustling center, and with a few vicious words that have passersby staring, he attempts a shortcut that curves back into the east and the specialty stalls. He sprints through puddles, leaps over a dog and elbows past a surely looking washer-woman who might have spit after him but he doesn't care because he's so close to seeing Elissa again, just like she promised. He just has to get to the mouth of the alley and she'll be—

Not there. Not a trace of her dark hair or strong figure in the crowd. Nothing. Alistair's heart sinks clear to the bottom of his stomach; she's not here, she was never here, he's simply going mad.

"Alistair! Alistair!" Zevran's worried shout brings him back to himself. He turns to find the two Elves sprinting after him and his disappointment is now coated with guilt.

"What's wrong?!" Lyna demands looking about with her hand on her Dar'Misaan. "Creators, you were running like you'd seen a horde of Chevaliers."

"I—it's nothing." He shakes his head, feeling acutely pathetic. "I thought I saw something but I didn't. There's...there's nothing." He says those words and feels like he's been slapped. "Let's just get back to the palace, please." And he ducks into the street before either of his companions can say anything.

Maker what a mad fool he's becoming, thinking he would have the luck to see her again.

#

"Are you all right, Alistair?"

For a woman who has helped to lead a rebellion, been a cornerstone of a nation's reconstruction, and most importantly can make Loghain Mac Tir fall to attention with the merest twitch of dissatisfaction in her jawline, Teyrna Rowan has the kindest eyes of anyone he's ever known. They've always looked upon him with warmth and understanding, a thing that Alistair has found incredibly rare as gotten old enough to notice how the world works. He wouldn't say that he thinks of her as a mother, that's Wynne's niche if only because Teyrna Rowan has never scolded him for slouching as the Royal Enchanter has, but a doting aunt? Yes, she fits that mold quite well.

Much as he does appreciate the care and consideration that Teyrna Rowan offers however, Alistair would much prefer to be an overlooked shadow right now. Gathered in the Blue Room, one of the chambers attached to the Throne Room where the King greets guests informally, with the Mac Tirs, Lady Gyllianne, and his father and Brother, Alistair would honestly rather be in his rooms. Away from family, friends, and even the Teyrna's soft gaze.

He isn't simply being bitter about hallucinating a certain someone in the market. He doesn't want to lie on his bed with a bottle of rum and drink away those happy memories and the taste of Elissa's mouth since they're now tormenting him like a curse. No, that is not it at all.

All right, that is _half_ of it. The loss of his virginity though, and the hallucination of the woman who took it Alistair is keeping too himself. Instead, he flicks his eyes toward his brother and father. Cailan is speaking to Teyrn Loghain and Lady Gyllianne, asking on about the tournaments scheduled during the Grand Progress. Or rather trying to wheedle a few more into the already cursedly long-looking jaunt. Father on the room's opposite side, is speaking to with Teyrna Rowan's daughter, specifically Mairyn on her time in Orzammar, where she has been living for the last six months to study Dwarven engineering. Both of them have their backs to one another and have not spoken one word since entering the room. In fact, Alistair believes they haven't spoken more than a handful of words since the day after Cailan was retrieved from the Pearl.

Teyrna Rowan sighs, blowing an errant silver-chestnut curl that's escaped its pins from her forehead in the process. A second is spared to frown and tuck the curl back, before she returns her attentions to him and lays a hand on Alistair' wrist.

"They'll work it out, dear," she assures him, voice just loud enough for him to hear. "It's just strain from all of the preparation from this Progress and the realization of what it's about setting in for them." Her fingers give a gentle squeeze. "The weight of the Crown is a burden, whether you're already wearing it or not." As she says the last part, her eyes flick toward her eldest daughter.

Alistair has always got on well-enough with Anora. When they were younger, she would teach him card games and help him with his lessons; he remembers very keenly how her jaw would tick but she never yelled, whenever he'd get angry with figures and demand what letters had to do with mathematics. Kind might not be the best word for it, but most of his life he has seen an Anora who was considerate, patient, and good-hearted, even if her demeanor is almost too forthright with a touch of surly (she has always been her father's daughter). Over the last few years though, she has become distant, with barely enough time to spare so much as a "hello" in the hallways let alone a game of cards. She's striving in the opposite direction of Cailan, it seems, whether it's because of him or simply her own conquering nature, Alistair cannot say. What he can say—or rather think—as he looks at her dark-haired figure, standing as straight-backed as she would in court, is that he rather misses the sort-of-sister who'd curse like a dockworker when she lost a hand.

Teyrna Rowan's thoughts are similar surely, as she smiles and pats his shoulder. While Alistair's mood is still on the hard side of forlorn and he wishes to be anywhere else, he does find himself comforted if only a little. Maker, if the night were to only consist of speaking with and Jenna, he might find it passable.

Right as that thought crosses his mind, the Blue Room's main doors are opened for Seneschal Arden to sweep in. A thin man with long white hair that is always kept in a braid that looks to be painful in its tightness, he bows deep and springs back up in one fluid motion. His voice is reedy but not gratingly so. "Teyrn Cousland, Teyrna Cousland, and their family are to enter presently, Your Majesty."

Father nods, already moving to take point at the center of the room. "Good, please show them in, Arden."

Another deep bow and Arden is on his feet; the man has the type of reflexes and joints that cats might envy. "At once, Your Majesty."

With one last look to Teyrna Rowan and a sigh of his own, Alistair moves to take his place at Father and Lady Gyllianne's left. She chuckles, patting his back on her way to take Teyrn Loghain's arm. The Mac Tirs cluster to Father's right with the exception of Anora, who takes Cailan's arm and a place closer to the center, as is proper for the Crown Prince's betrothed. Both of them look stiff and pointedly away from one another; Cailan's face has even gone a bit red. It would be a fair bet that that they have not spoken since the incident at the Pearl either.

Is wrong to be a just the tiniest bit glad that Cailan will be uncomfortable this even too? Maybe. Probably. Alistair remembers carrying his brother up all of those flights of stairs just a few weeks past and decides that he can live with that. He finds himself grinning at the thought just as the Seneschal returns, trailed by two people.

"Announcing Teyrn Bryce and Teyrna Eleanor Cousland of Highever, Keepers of the Coast and loyal subjects to the True Sovereign of the land."

He has only met the Couslands a few times; as the sentinels of the northern coast which also has a fork of the Imperial Highway running through it, connect Ferelden with trade from the Dales, Nevarra, and Orlais, they seldom leave Highever. They have always been amiable people during those limited visits though.

Teyrn Cousland is a man of average height and solid build with shocking blue eyes and silver hair that now only has a few flecks of sable-brown still in it. His face still has the telltale signs of chiseling to it that say he was quite handsome in his youth. His wife's features are longer, a bit sharper, but still elegant, and played upon by the many braided coils of her dark gray hair that must have once been blacker than ink. The Teyrna stands a good half head above her husband, and her build is willowy without being waifish, as a natural archer's should be. Alistair doesn't doubt that if a cadre of assassins came out of the walls that her sharp, crystal-green eyes would bat even a lash, she'd simply pull a bow from the wall and dispose of them.

Perhaps that's simply Alistair fantasizing over the many tales of the "Seawolf" that he's heard all through his childhood. Either way they both smile with warmth and grace as they take a knee before Father.

"Your Majesty, Your Highnesses," they say in perfect unison, as if they had practiced for it. Perhaps they did, but the words do not have the artificial primness to them like Arden's announcement. The Teyrn and Teyrna _mean_ their words, and they are proud to say them. Or at least they appear to. Alistair is of the opinion that they are sincere. As is Father.

"Bryce, Eleanor," Father says waving his hands, urging them to stand. "Enough of that, Maker Bless. That's why we decided to do the dinner _after_ court, let's spare the formalities until we absolutely have to bring them out. Andraste knows the months ahead will be full of nothing but."

Teyrn Cousland laughs while his wife smiles deeply. "Pardon, Maric. We had to at least attempt some decorum. Eleanor insisted."

"Eleanor _did_ ," the Teyrna confirms as she holds her hand out to Father.

He takes it, placing a kiss upon the back and smiles at her fondly. "Ah, Eleanor, how _did_ a scoundrel like Bryce win the Maker's favor and land you as a bride?"

"Her own good taste," Lady Gyllianne interjects with a sylphish smile.

"And good sense," Teyrna Rowan adds.

The room bursts into laughter, most of it genuine with even Teyrn Loghain looking at ease. Lady Gyllianne embraces Teyrna Cousland, kissing the air on each side of her cheek while Father clasps Teyrn Cousland's hand and claps his back. The same respect is shown to Anora and Cailan and finally Teyrn and Teyrna Mac Tir.

"My goodness, look at all of these younglings," Teyrn Cousland says after the greetings. He smiles at Jenna. "The youngest is already sixteen. Maker preserve, you're all doing this growing up thing far too fast. You should stop it at once."

Teyrn Loghain chuckles, a hand coming to rest upon his youngest's head. Most who meet the Hero of Riverdane, Alistair knows, are put off by his no-nonsense and sometimes dour approach to things. Most who meet him though, never get to see him earnest and in the company of his children. "I say the same thing."

"Yes," Jenna deadpans. Her nose wrinkles at her father but she doesn't shrug him off. "Often. So very, very, _very_ often, Father."

He says that and Alistair feels a touch to the nape of his neck. Through the corner of his eye, Father catches his gaze and smiles softly as he combs the fine hairs at the base of Alistair's skull. The Teyrn of Gwaren is not the only father in the room with a soft spot for his youngest. In the second between Father's hand falling away and the next conversation, Alistair thinks that he sees Cailan looking at them. He must be imagining it, since when he blinks Cailan is speaking to Teyrn Cousland.

"How is Fergus?" his brother asks. Fergus Cousland, if Alistair's memory serves right, is about four years Cailan's senior and was his brother's mentor during page training. A nice fellow, Fergus, a bit on the loud side and full of raunchy jokes but he was never a troublemaker.

The teyrn nods to him. "He is doing quite well, your Royal Highness, as you'll see once we've made it to Highever. His wife is currently expecting their third child."

Cailan nods as if he accepts that, but then adds, with just a hint of a whine, "I'll admit I was a bit disappointed to hear he wouldn't be accompanying us."

Teyrna Eleanor answers and she answers with an undertone that has just the barest hint of a lecture to it. Clearly, she's aware of the kind of man-child she's dealing with. "Someone must be in charge of the Teyrnir while we're away, and as the eldest son of our house that responsibility falls upon Fergus. I'm sure that Your Royal Highness is very familiar with answering the call of lineage and duty as well." A smile flashes on her lips, white and red, and Alistair knows without a doubt why folk dubbed this woman "Seawolf": _fangs_. Alistair might love her.

The sentiment seems to be shared by the rest of the room, into their collars or sleeves, everyone smiles, even the corners of Anora's mouth twitch, while Cailan's face goes a little pink.

"Speaking of your children," Lady Gyllianne interjects with a delicate nod. "I thought you had brought the youngest three with you?"

Teyrna Eleanor sighs. "We—"

"They did! We're here!"

Alistair's heart stops. That voice. He _knows_ that voice. He doesn't want to look even though every inch of him is screaming that he knows that voice and there can be no mistake.

When he does turn his head toward the doors, he first sees a lissome young man. Around Cailan's age, he favors Teyrna Cousland, particularly with his green eyes and pitch-dark hair. There's an apologetic smile on his long face.

Right behind him is Morrigan, her eyes still sharp and lovely, walking on the arm of everything that Alistair has been dreaming of for weeks on end.

Everything about her is the same. The soft curve of her mouth and its soft red hue, her strong shoulders and swaying hips, her inky hair has been detained by a braid, but it leaves her bluer than blue eyes clear.

This is either a hallucination or he has died. Or he very possibly died via that rock-fist back at the beginning of the month and that perpetual torment in his own awkwardness was _not_ at all a wrong idea. Maker, how do you test to see if you are dead and walking the afterlife without killing yourself in the process?

While Alistair's head spins, he vaguely catches the conversation.

"My apologies, Your Majesty," the young man, Teyrn and Teyrna Cousland's son, is saying as he drops to one knee. "I had gotten myself lost in your wonderful library and my little sisters had to fetch me."

"Not a problem at all," Father says motioning him to stand. "I trust you enjoyed yourself then, Aeden, isn't it?"

Aeden nods. "Yes. It's quite grand, Majesty, it made me long for my time at the Great Library in Tantervale."

The Teyrn chuckles while the Teyrna sighs with a reproving, " _Aeden_."

"What?" Like all scholars, he is oblivious to all save for his interest, though Alistair judges that from Mairyn. The Teyrna beckons him over to introduce to Cailan and Anora while Father turns to the girls.

"And the lovely daughters of House Cousland," he says as they too bend a knee before him. "Morrigan and... I'm so very sorry, my dear, forgive an old man, but I've forgotten your name?"

"Elissa," she says. She smiles and those incredible eyes crinkle at the corners just as they had with their first kiss. "I'm Elissa, Your Majesty." Said eyes wander from Father straight to him. Alistair feels as if he's inside of a bell that's just been struck with a mallet. He could vibrate right out of his skin. Something beneath his skin burns beneath those ever-blue eyes and Maker help him it sends a trill down his spine. "And I am very happy to finally be here."


	5. A Real Pleasure To Meet You

**Disclaimer:** I don't own this, I'm not making money.

* * *

Father's chuckle rings in Alistair's head, as if he were standing at the opposite end of a canyon and not just an arm's length away. "Well, we are certainly glad to finally have you here, my dear."

Glad? Is that what Alistair must be? By Andraste Alistair does not know what he should be. Every free thought in his head is dancing with one that opposes it, leaving only dust where they collide.

Focus. _Focus_ , man! Don't lose yourself and start making a face. Or sweat. Do. Not. Start. Sweating.

"That's right," Teyrna Rowan says. Her voice is a little less echo-y than Father's was. "Fergus is the only one of your children who's been to the capital before, isn't he?"

Teyrna Cousland's lips part to answer but Elissa chimes in quickly with, "And hopefully that won't count against us." Her joke is followed by a giggle and the corners of every mouth in the room tugging upward, even Anora's. Even his.

Her smile is still so infectious, just like when she held his face in her hands and...

No. No. Do _not_ think about that. Not while you're standing in front of your family and the most important members of the court. Absolutely not.

" _Elissa_ ," her mother says as if to reprimand, though it falls a little flat for the hint of laughter in her voice.

"He presented himself as a fine young man, rest assured," Lady Gyllianne says. The curl of her mouth deepens. "And I see that you brought a touch of his jocularity back to court within you."

"That, I think, they will not be able to help but hold against us, Sister," Morrigan says, patting Elissa's arm in a feint of apology. The sorceress looks no less intimidating in a silk dress than she did with mana pouring from her fingertips. It's her carriage; the way her shoulders are held high and she looks as if she's staring through a body straight to the bone.

Perhaps imagining the bones of his that she crushed, Alistair believes when those citrine eyes glance his way. Only for a moment, a bare flicker of an instant, but in that flicker there is recognition and clear disdain. In all honesty, Morrigan's still-present scorn is what makes Alistair sure that he isn't going insane. Even his dreams couldn't think up something as sharp as her eyes.

Chuckling again, Father beckons the Cousland daughters up from their knees. "Good humor is always welcome in these halls, my ladies. Now, might I introduce my sons to you?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," Elissa says. Her eyes cut to Alistair and he has to fend off a shiver. "Though, I do believe it would be a reintroduction, seeing as we've already met."

His heart stops hard, enough so that Alistair expects to see the outline of it on his tunic should he look down.

Maker, no. She isn't going to bring _that_ up here in front of everyone is she? In front of her parents and brother no less? Right?

What if she already told them though? What if the Teyrn and Teyrna know that the king's bastard had their daughter in the woods? Worse, what if they know how much of fumbling dunce he had been? By Andraste, he would rather the Teyrn cut his throat out than to have anyone know about how ungainly so much of the loss of his virginity was.

Teyrna Eleanor laughs while Alistair's heart is giving way. "Oh, I had forgotten that; you _did_ bringyour boys to Highever once, didn't you? Though that was quite some time ago."

"I—I don't remember that." Alistair's voice finds itself though it's off-pitch practically to the point it wouldn't be recognized. No one seems to notice though, well aside from Elissa, with her eyes on him, he doubts anything about him is escaping her.

"You wouldn't," Father says. "You caught cold on the journey north. Past the first evening, you didn't see much of Castle Cousland outside of your quarters. Besides, you were only seven." He smiles at Elissa. "I'm surprised you remember, my dear. You weren't much older."

She grins back. "The polite thing to say, I'm sure, would be that a lady never forgets the first time that she meets a prince, let alone two and a king."

That makes Teyrn Cousland laugh. His eyes twinkle just like his daughter's do when he says, "But the honest thing that I know, is that my never-a-lady-in-her-life daughter has not forgotten the pink ruffled dress that her loving mother finagled her into for the occasion."

"She has not," Elissa agrees, tugging at her sleeve. Unlike her mother and sister, she wears no dress but a surcoat, shirt, breeches, and boots in shades sapphire blue and leaf green, the Cousland colors, as her father and brother do. Her surcoat is longer though, with embroidered edges, a fitted waist, and the cut of her collar is deeper. The shirt that she wears has fuller sleeves as well, and her boots come up over her knee. Practical, stylish, and still feminine without sacrificing mobility to layers of skirts.

"No one has," Morrigan says with a smirk that earns her a wrinkled nose from her sister. " _Or_ the giant bow that went with it, twice the size of your head."

" _I_ ," Aeden chimes in, arms crossed and a wicked smirk upon his face that could compete with one of Zevran's, "recall best that same dress and bow covered in muck not ten minutes later because there was a very large frog in the garden pond that you had to have."

"Maker's Breath, do _not_ bring that fiasco up," Teryna Cousland says with the abject weariness only a loving mother of four could convey. Her sharp eyes narrow upon the taller of her two daughters. Elissa's response is a unabashed smile. Seeing her cause lost, she shakes her head, moving forward to usher Morrigan over to Cailan and Anora for introductions. Alistair's stomach flips and knots itself as Elissa doesn't follow her mother and sister, opting instead to approach him. He almost wants to run but he's already trapped in her gaze. In all of that blue, there's nowhere else he could possibly go.

Father's hand finds his shoulder, though Alistair's head is so occupied with not drowning in her eyes, the touch barely registers. The same goes for his laughter.

"Lady Elissa, please allow me to introduce my son, Prince Alistair," Father says. He laughs again, clapping his palm affectionately against the back of Alistair's neck. "Or rather, reintroduce, isn't it?"

Her smile widens. Maker, her smile is still the most wonderful thing, so red against the pallor of her skin. Is it as soft as he remembers? It looks like it, softer even. And what about her tongue? It was so sweet and gentle, twining against his own, tasting him. Something in the pit of his belly starts to coil.

Stop it. Stop it. _Stop it_. For the love of Andraste, Father is right here!

His blood must be too confused on where to go, to flood his face or everything below his belt. That's all that saves him from cheeks the same shade of scarlet as Lady Gyllianne's gown when Elissa bows and says, "A pleasure to see you again, Your Highness." Her head is tilted up as she bends, and there is a glimmer in her eyes when she speaks.

The Maker or Andraste must take pity on him and grant him a small miracle, because he manages not only to keep himself from falling over but also to accept her hand. Fizzy rivulets, like the kind that might linger in the air after lightning has been cast only warmer, brighter, and far more intense, slide from her palm up his arm. Alistair has to fight off a shiver while coaxing his fingers to wrap around her lightning-kissed wrist.

Another miracle; his voice works. "The pleasure is mine, my lady." And he brings her knuckles to his lips.

She did not expect that gesture, though to be fair Alistair had not either. Some strange impulse has been fanned to life deep in his brain at the sight of her in the flesh, and he can't ignore it. He does not wish to either, not when he can see the faintest peachy color crawling up her neck and into her cheeks. He remembers how it had tasted, her blush, the delightful heat beneath his lips as he explored strong, elegant curve of her neck with his mouth.

He very nearly drops her hand as that coil in his belly tightens. He's not going to last the evening. Would Jenna mind terribly much if _he_ faked the plague?

Of course she would, she'd stab him in his sleep. Or worse, rat him out. Maker, just think of Wynne knitting scarves...

"I'm sure you two will be closer than mabari pups in a basket by the time that the Progress is well underway," Father is saying. At the farthest edge of his periphery, Alistair sees him wink, oblivious to the tension pulsing before him.

Elissa grins and a new thing in Alistair's chest flips once or twenty times. "I know we will, Majesty."

"Well that makes an old man's heart light to hear." Father pats his shoulder one final time before offering Elissa his arm. She takes it, allowing him to lead her down the line to Anora and Cailan. She looks back as they go, azure eyes locked upon him and one corner of her mouth tilted in a smile that he's sure no one but him would notice.

That thing in his chest continues to flip while his lips and hand buzz with the static residue of her touch. Andraste preserve and guide, he does not think he will survive this dinner.

 **#**

Alistair survives dinner. Mostly because Elissa is seated at the other end of the table where he can scarcely see her and because talk at the table centers upon the Grand Progress and upcoming wedding broken only a brief but very educational lecture on the superiority of Dwarven architecture, thanks to Mairyn. In the buzz of it all, he's allowed to become invisible again. Which is for the best because as his astonishment fades, anger starts bubbling. By the time that dessert has arrived there's a fist in his chest, red-hot, crushing, and turning the taste of the apple tart that he picks at to ashes. He excuses himself before the dinner's formal end with the flimsy excuse of being tired. No one bats an eyelash at him, even Father or Lady Gyllianne; he's allowed to go without a word of protest or any further attention. Well, save for the blue eyes he feels on his back as he goes, but Alistair tries to ignore them, to ignore _her_.

That's futile.

She knew. She knew exactly who he was and didn't say a word.

In the sanctuary of his rooms, Alistair fumes. He'd like to go at some of the training dummies in the practice yard, but if his lie makes that impossible. In his tower he has trapped himself, so he'll have to be content with pacing and punching pillows. He goes at the latter until his arms are sore and the air is struggling to stay in his burning lungs.

Fool. Always a fool. He should have known that this fantasy could not be real. Elissa had known he was a prince. She'd taken him to her bed for the crown that would mercifully never be his but somehow still managed crush him.

He feels raw, exposed, like cracked tooth. He feels like he's six again, noticing for the first time how the nobility look on their "motherless" prince. He feels _used_. Maker, he might cry.

Collapsing in the window seat by his desk, Alistair scrubs a hand across his face. It does very little to alleviate the stinging of his eyes or the stuffiness of his nose.

One moment. That was all he really wanted. One moment where his blood didn't dictate anything. One moment where he was _happy_.

The knocks at the door go unnoticed by Alistair in his fit of melancholia, as does the creak of hinges when his visitor gets tired of knocking. In fact, Cailan goes entirely undetected until he's two feet away and tossing one of Alistair's already battered pillows at him.

Surprise almost sends Alistair toppling from his perch. It also nearly sends him flying at his brother with curled fists and thirst to bust something on that stupid smug face.

By Andraste, this is under his skin.

"What?" he demands, settling for hurling the pillow back at his brother.

Cailan catches it easily—not that Alistair had been really trying—though by the look that flits across his face, one would think it was a brick that he caught. Alistair is far too preoccupied with his own messy feelings to mind his brother's however, even with the knowing tug in his gut telling him that that the flash of hurt is genuine.

A moment passes in which Cailan simply stares, his hazel eyes, the one and only thing his Antivan mother passed on to him in way of appearance, are oddly still. Contemplative or careful Cailan is not, and never will be but Alistair can see him struggling with the attempt. If he weren't intent on moping, he just might be touched

"You left early," he offers after several long moments.

Alistair blinks up at him. "Come again?"

"You left early," Cailan says again. He shifts, as if those words are uncomfortable for him, uncrossing then re-crossing his arms over his chest. He looks away as Alistair continues to stare blankly at him. "You never dodge out of a dinner. No matter how boring it is."

Shrugging, Alistair looks down at the front of his sleep-shirt. "Like I said, I'm tired. Today's been…long." And disappointing. And painful. And so, so, _so_ disappointing.

Looking a little more himself—which is to say oblivious—Cailan sighs and drops down into Alistair's desk chair. "Maker, you're telling me." He ruffles his own hair and turns a lopsided grin up to him. "All morning I sat through a ceremony with the Rivaini Ambassador and some seer she brought over to bless the upcoming nuptials as a gift." His brother's nose wrinkles. "She ran an egg over my forehead and Anora's then cooked it up over a candle with some weird spices. We had to eat it. For a 'fruitful union'."

Alistair's misery dwindles just a bit. "An egg?"

"An egg," Cailan confirms with a chuckle. "It was a weird one too. All speckled and green and shite. Anora hid it pretty well, but I could tell she was about five seconds away from spitting it out and slapping Ambassador Jasmina in the face the entire time. Or vomiting it up in her lap."

He laughs, in spite of the ache in his ribs and not even wanting to. It's a wonderful thing to picture, ever-composed Anora having to eat a "fruitful" egg, candle-cooked by an gnarled old woman covered in tattoos and half of her body's weight in garish jewelry.

"Wait, how did _you_ keep a straight face if Anora was barely hanging on?" Alistair demands. Anora is a natural politician what's more, she is a Mac Tir; they can put on a stiff upper lip through anything, even a banquet with Orlesian dignitaries. Or at least they can with Teyrna Rowan looking onward with arms crossed and gray eyes sharp.

His brother snorts. "Is that a joke? I've eaten _much_ worse things than some foul, blessed-egg nonsense."

"Like what?"

"Like your trail cooking."

Alistair laughs again and Cailan joins him and for just a second he forgets the misery saturating his insides. It strikes him that this used to be their everyday, at a time when Cailan could scarcely be found out of Alistair's company. They were always laughing, even when angry, and they told each other everything. They used to be brothers, _real_ ones, and this ghost of Used-To-Be sends a whole new wave of sadness washing over Alistair after the Way-Things-Are-Now catches up.

The silence that falls between he and his brother prickles, like rashvine on bare skin. Alistair looks from the knees of his sleeping trousers to Cailan then back to his knees. Similarly, Cailan seeps with disquiet. Alistair can see his tongue wriggling behind his lips and teeth, digging for a very simple sentence "What's wrong?" But every time, he hits bedrock just short of the mark.

The best he can muster after several long and uncomfortable moments is, "So..."

Alistair could help his brother; prod him in the right direction. Something in Cailan has been drowning for quite some time so perhaps this is much of a cry for help as it is concern for him. Alistair could reach out and perhaps that would solve both of their problems.

But right now, Alistair does not want to solve, he wants to sulk. Helping Cailan to help him is more than he can give this evening.

"Cailan, I really am tired," he says and it isn't a lie.

Something that might be hurt snaps in his brother's eyes but it's covered in an instant, giving Alistair just enough room to doubt that it was ever there at all. Cailan nods and stands.

"Right. Right." He smiles as he rises and Alistair honestly cannot tell if it is a mask for relief or disappointment. It's also impossible for Alistair to tell which of those things (or somehow both) is filling he himself up right now.

Cailan lingers for a moment or two after he's on his feet, fingers curling and uncurling, like he wants to reach out and touch Alistair's arm or ruffle his hair. Neither of which he has done in years. Or at least it feels like years.

"You, uh, you rest well, then," his brother says with an awkward nod which Alistair returns (probably even more awkwardly), then he turns and he's marching out like a fire is nipping his heels.

Guilt gnaws at Alistair, tiny teeth on his already overburdened mind, accompanied by whispers about a little more effort wouldn't have been amiss. He swats them away and abandons the window to flop onto the middle of his bed. Maybe if he stares at the ceiling long enough, he can trick himself into sleep.

There are about five seconds of quiet, Alistair has pillowed his arms behind his head and has begun to count the grooves along the wood and stone above the headboard, before knocking once again breaks the silence. He notices this time of course, and contemplates ducking beneath his blankets. By the insistent rapping, he would hazard to guess that Cailan's come back. Or it's Zevran. Or Lyna.

All of his friends are such pushy people.

Up he gets, if only to avoid the possibility that if it's Lyna, she'll barge in and then jump on him out of spite for him ignoring her. Those bony knees have been in his gut and ribs one too many times already and Alistair is hardly in the mood to relive the experience.

"All right, all right, I'm coming!" he calls pushing himself up from his coverlet. Padding through the short entry hall, Alistair prays that it isn't Cailan, coming back with some harebrained scheme to cheer him up. A life-long coldshoulder might very well be preferable to any plan his brother hatches, and that isn't his foul mood speaking. Not completely anyway.

"What is—" the terse greeting peters off into an empty hallway. He blinks, pushing the door wider as he steps out into the foyer that links his quarters to Royal Wing. The hall is bare save for the usual statues, drapes, and plants. For a split second he thinks it might be a prank, but the only one who would do such a thing would be Zevran and since the air isn't thick with the scent of Antivan leather (where, how, or _why_ Zevran gets a cologne like that is beyond comprehension), Alistair is certain that he's not going have an Elf on his back any time soon.

Maybe ruling out insanity shouldn't have happened so soon… Yet another wonderful item to add to today's growing list of pleasant surprises.

It's time for bed, he decides as he marches back into his bedroom. Whether tiredness is really seeping into his bones or not. There are still tonics somewhere in the desk that Wynne left for him when had caught a bad cold some months ago and sleep was difficult; if he downs one of those he'll be out in a quick minute. No fuss, no dreams of Elissa or—

"So we should probably talk."

Alistair doesn't screech with surprise when he comes back into his bedroom and upon shutting the door, finds the object of his dismay standing by his desk. Everything considered, he would say that that's impressive. Less impressive and very overshadowing however, is the fact that he bites down on his cheek, and backpedals so hard and fast that he slams into the bed stand and wall. The wall is of course fine, and so is the bed stand, aside from a few odds and ends toppling off. His shoulder though, smarts, but not as much as his cheek from where he bit down on impact. Chunks of flesh aren't exactly torn out between his teeth, but by Andraste does it _hurt_.

"Dammit!" he growls, clamping a hand over his mouth. From her place by his armchair, Elissa has winced, lips parting in a sympathetic "O". He returns her sympathy with a glare. That ire either doesn't register with her or does not bother her.

"Maker, I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to startle you. Shit."

Alistair almost falls over. "You didn't mean to startle me?!" He tries to contain his voice, both for privacy's sake as well as his cheek. "Really? _Really_?!"

 _That_ makes her flinch. "I'm sorry," she says again.

A part of Alistair whispers that Elissa is being genuine. Trouble is he can't tell if that part is his common sense or the want that shoots through him like ache when he meets her ever-blue eyes. He balls his fists then crosses his arms in an attempt to shield himself from their power.

The second unpleasant silence of the evening spreads through the room. All of the knots in Alistair's stomach tangle up with one another until they've formed a ball that pushes up against the fist in his chest. He feels shaky, almost sick, and does not trust his voice.

The one and only consolation that he has is that she doesn't look any more at ease. Elissa's hands are clasped together at her waist, fingers rubbing together anxiously.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you who I really was," she says after what feels like an eternity. "That wasn't right of me." She shifts, shoulders squaring and chin going up in defiance though her eyes do not harden. "But I also think it's more than fair to point out that you didn't exactly give me the full truth either."

Guilt spikes in with the tumult of his emotions. His bad mood had recalled everything _but_ that fact. "That's—I— _I_ didn't know you were you! It's completely different!"

"It's a _little_ different," she corrects crossing her arms as well.

"A little?" he demands. "It's unfair is what it is. You knew exactly who I was from the start! Why didn't you tell me who you really were?!"

Alistair doesn't know what he loathes more, the fact that Elissa is isn't at all flustered or the clarity and logic of her response. "For the same reason that I assumed you didn't bring up _your_ birthright; I like being seen as myself and not an accessory to my family's name. And…" Her confident composure finally shakes. She licks her lips, breaking her gaze from his just for a moment to stare down at her hands and chafe the knuckles of her right hand with her thumb. Over the spot that he kissed, no less.

His heart needs to stop missing its beats. Seriously, it's becoming a concern.

It ignores that order, stuttering again when her eyes return to his. They're ablaze like Lyrium caught against the summer sky. "And I didn't want you to stop looking at me the way that you did. I didn't want you to stop wanting me as much as I want you."

A half-second passes in which a protest begins scuttling over his tongue. One to proclaim that her fears were unfounded and unfair. Alistair swallows it back though when he tastes it for the lie that it is. Had he known that she were nobility, he would have run from that clearing the second he could stand, maybe even in spite of cracked ribs. He certainly wouldn't have kissed her much less lain with her.

After that realization smacks him, the next one takes its turn. _Want_. Not _wanted_. He blinks as he looks at her searching her face because he has surely misunderstood. His search comes up empty-handed on what it set to find but discovers something much, much better.

Elissa stares back steady and earnest, every muscle in her body leaning toward him despite him being across the room, quivering, quaking, and _wanting_. He blinks and sees that he hasn't been alone in these last few weeks with dreams and idle thoughts always running back to that warm afternoon in the forest.

They meet at the room's center, toe-to-toe, but not touching even though every fiber of Alistair is screaming to do so. The knots in his stomach have dissipated and the weight in his chest morphed; his breath still comes heavy because he the air itself has changed, thickened with this thing between them. He can feel the heat of her skin in spite of the space and layers of clothing that separate them.

He swallows hard as he looks up at her perfect face. Maker, he does love that she's taller than he is. "We _are_ going to have to talk all of this through," he says. His hands burn to take the swell of her hips, to caress up the curve of her waist and mold against her bottom, bringing her front flush with his.

She swallows too; he watches, torn between bob of her throat and the way that she's licking her lips again. "We will. Later."

"Later," he agrees.

That's all either of them need. Forward they both surge, he tips his chin, she tilts her head, and they seal themselves together. Hot mouths and eager hands find purchase and roam.

It isn't like the first time. That had been discovery, exploration. Now there is memory. Nights and days spent dreaming of the sounds that Elissa made when he touched her in a certain way or a certain place have permanently etched themselves in Alistair's brain. He lets those recollections take point and they heed her lead.

Their clothes are gone by the time that they've reached his bed, tossed in a frenzy about the room. She changed her clothes before coming to him, her formal dinner attire was replaced by a thin linen shirt, boots, and loose breeches. The new ensemble does not include smallclothes.

He just wants to touch her, to bring every single inch of her flush to him until the warmth of her skin seeps forever into him. It's impossible to stop kissing her, any part he can reach, mouth, cheek, chin, jaw, neck; each inch tastes sweeter than he remembers. His hands are just as restless, running up the silky, muscled planes of her back, cupping her bottom, trailing up her sides to caress her breasts. She is content to let him do this for some time, humming appreciatively in the back of her throat as he reacquaints himself.

Funny, how he's spent so long fantasizing about their time together in the forest but now that he has her with him he has no idea how to progress. Alistair could probably be content with standing by his bed all night simply holding and kissing and nothing else. He definitely wants to have a night like soon, perhaps many, if he's being honest with himself, but right now he's full to bursting with desire; he just doesn't know what direction to run with it. That's why he's here with Elissa however, she _does_ know what path should be taken, and her steps are careful but confident.

She catches his mouth when it comes back to hers and holds it there for a long, breath-robbing kiss that makes Alistair cling to her once it's over. He feels her smile against his jaw as she trails her lips across it then down his throat. She sucks on the stubbled line of his Adam's apple, nibbling then soothing with her tongue. The same treatment is given to his collarbones and his left nipple as she works her way down. Only when his arms are empty and she's on her knees, does it occur to Alistair what she intends.

She looks up at him through lowered lashes with a smile that would probably make Desire Demons wary. It's as arousing as it is intimidating and Alistair enjoys the somewhat helpless feeling that comes with the latter far more than he should probably admit, even to himself.

He would never have thought to ask her for _that_. Never. It's too tawdry and vile, a centerpiece in all of the unsavory stories his brother's (former) guard liked to tell about women.

"You—you don't have to." His kneejerk, timid response to what she offers sounds pathetic to his own ears.

Elissa does not make him feel pathetic though. Her hands have framed the V of his hips and her thumbs rub circles into it. Her smile melts to something more gentle and sincere and she presses a kiss against his naval.

"I know I don't have to, Alistair," she tells him. "I _want_ to."

"Why?"

"Because I like you," she says so matter-of-factly that he could punch himself in the face. "And because I think you'd enjoy it and," back creeps that Desire Demon smile, "I want to know what you taste like."

He's lightheaded again, all of his blood trying to divide itself between his face and his cock. "I—Oh. Oh, all right then."

"All right then," she mimics before leaning back in and flicking her tongue against the head. Alistair gasps at the sensation, hips jerking. Elissa swats his hip. A mock glare is thrown up at him. "Hey, be still. I'll let you know when you can move."

He nods, already shaking. "Yeah. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," she assures him. She pats his hipbone. "Tugging my hair is fine, by the way, I like it. But don't pull."

Alistair didn't even realize that his hands were in her hair. When had that happened? He almost jerks them away out of sheer surprise. But then Elissa's tongue is swiping over the head of his cock again and he has to ground himself somehow. He does remember not to pull.

He already knew that her mouth was something wonderful, the first time that she had smiled at him, Alistair had known that. But this…This he could not have imagined, not even in all of the filthiest thoughts he's ever allowed himself (which, from what he's gathered just by this, are incredibly _not_ filthy in an almost sad way in fact). Her tongue teases and tastes him, swirls across the head, pressing at a space that makes him see stars and swear. A hand cups his sac, squeezing and it hurts but it hurts in the kind of way that's wonderful and he all but sobs with pleasure.

How long this goes on, he cannot say. It feels like it could be an eternity and that would be fine, but Alistair is a realist when it comes to his stamina. The burning coil in his gut heats quickly and he knows it won't be long before it bursts and this round is over.

Elissa doesn't need to be reminded of this. She pulls her mouth away with a delectably wet "pop!" and looks up. Alistair wonders if it's strange that he wants to kiss her now more than he ever has before, with her lips slick, wet, and a little swollen from being wrapped about his cock.

"When I dig my nails in, you can thrust." That's all the warning he has before she's engulfing him again, pulling him to her until her nose is brushing the curls at the root. He has to let go of her hair then, both because he's too afraid he might yank and because he _has_ to have something sturdier to keep himself upright. That one motion has slammed electricity into the veins of his lower half and he can feel every muscle quaking, in particular his knees. Her shoulders are there, smooth, lovely and so very strong, so Alistair grasps them and he finds a mountain's worth of solidness beneath.

It's like being wrapped in slick velveteen. Tight and hot and unbearably fantastic. It's a very good thing that her iron-jointed hands have bracketed his hips, Alistair can feel the muscle beneath spasming with the need to move as the coil in his belly tightens to the point of pain. Elissa helps him keep himself still and he feels her adjusting, the muscles in her throat flutter to accommodate his girth and he almost sobs as her tongue swirls over him.

Her nails aren't very sharp, but he still feels their edge when they sink into the flesh of his backside. Permission given, he hesitates even through the blistering need to move. He looks down at Elissa, again feeling so useless but he doesn't see even a trace of irritation in her brilliant eyes. She understands, as always, and grasps his hips a little more tightly before pulling back then sliding forward. She guides him gently into a rhythm and he is all too happy to take her direction.

He does not last long at all, he knew he wouldn't, but that doesn't make him feel any better about it. A few precious moments of bliss end with the explosion of heat just below his gut. He tries to pull back because he can't see anyone _wanting_ to do that but again, Elissa surprises him, holding his erratic, bucking hips fast in her capable hands as ecstasy surges through his veins. He feels like he has died as she hums around him, pulsing down her throat and it was an incredible way to go.

His head is swimming once his climax has released him. Half-keeled over, all that has kept him from the floor is Elissa. She grins up at him, licking her lips when he slides from between them. His seed trickles from the corner of her mouth and Maker take it all, if the sight of her lapping it away doesn't make him wish he could be hard again.

The question of whether or not he tasted good has half formed at the back of his throat when she's standing urging him onto the bed. He complies because really how can he do anything else against her, even when he isn't sapped from release? He sprawls, or rather falls, inelegantly back against his coverlet. She follows, hovering above on hands and knees, as if to survey with those big, beguiling eyes. Alistair does not want to be surveyed, he wants to feel and to felt in return. With the little coherent strength he has left, he leans up just enough to capture her mouth. Elissa is still for a moment, as if she might recoil but instead comes closer.

The trace of himself that he samples on her tongue isn't what he was expecting. Alistair knows under any other circumstances he would be repulsed this, but the idea of his taste mingling with hers, permeating each kiss it's...enticing. He wants her to taste like him, wants their flavors to be mingled just like he wants her, and he wants to drink that until his tongue can't make out any other flavor.

"I'm bitter," he says once they've parted to breathe.

Elissa chuckles, rubbing her nose to his. "Mmm, no. You're sweet." Alistair would blush from the compliment but fortuitously, she's already turned him pink and sweaty all over. "Here," she maneuvers them both onto their sides. Her fingers take his wrist, guiding it between her legs. "Give me a hand."

He would laugh had orgasm not reduced his facilities so. As it is, his humor is still trying to catch up and that takes a back seat to Elissa's needs.

She's wet. So wet. Just like the first time he touched her there. He looks down between them and finds the flesh pink, swollen, and glistening with its trim of neat black curls. He's sorely tempted to taste her, to do for her what she just did for him. He isn't brave enough though, not yet, not without at least a little more idea of how to make it as fantastic for her as it was for him. One day, he promises himself, he's going to have his face buried between Elissa's thighs and make her shriek if it's the last thing that he does.

Okay, so maybe his thoughts _are_ filthy. Or maybe she has that effect of making them filthy. Either way, he brushes his knuckles to the hot seam of her cunt and enjoys the little sigh that she puffs against his ear.

He goes slow, not so much to tease but because he's remembering and he wants to give her the best that he can. He parts her slowly, soaking in her heat and getting a feeling again for the shape of her sex. Caressing the walls, circling the tunnel that he remembers fitting him with such perfection, and pressing the little nub at the top that makes her shake and keen.

They shift as he dips two fingers in. Elissa moans, slipping a leg up over his hip, her whole body curving into the touch. Alistair goes back to mapping her skin with his mouth. He licks the sweat the pools in the dip of her collarbone and the valley between her breasts, kissing and sucking at the swell of each. Her arms wind about is neck, with one hand curling into the hairs at his nape, encouraging him with breathy whines and kisses to his crown.

She is molten in his hand, and he almost wonders how neither of them have turned to ash from it. He pushes deeper, angling his wrist in the exact way that he recalls her directing him to back in the forest, searching for that special spot. He knows he's found it both by the pulse that intensifies under his fingertips and the strangled cry that Elissa muffles into his hair. Alistair adores that noise, needs to hear it again more than he needs to breathe.

He curls his fingers against the spot then spreads them, thumb rubbing slow circles around her clitoris as he does. Again, she cries, a strangled, wanton sound so full of need he can feel it choking her. Smaller, even needier noises come and she grips him harder as she ruts into his palm. He follows this tattoo over and over and over again, enjoying the ever tightening clench and tremble of her muscles around him until the pressure becomes too much and she falls apart.

It's a beautiful thing, to watch Elissa come undone. Ebony hair flies as she throws back her head and bites her lower lip, doing all that she can not to rattle the castle down with her scream. Her pale skin is pearlescent with a flush and the veneer of sweat. Best of all she clings to him, shuddering, vulnerable, and sated, looking at him with glazed blue eyes that hold only his reflection.

Alistair withdraws his fingers, rubbing the small of her back when she whimpers and twitches from the loss. He brings his hand up, it glistens with her juices, and he can't resist a taste. It's not what he expected, but then he's not actually sure just what is that he did expect, but at the same time it's familiar because it is her, and whatever it is that makes up the flavor of Elissa, well, he hasn't been able to shake the want of it yet.

She watches his experiment with curiously raised eyebrow and a small smile. "Do _I_ taste good?" she asks.

"Very," he says and she giggles, cupping his jaw and urging his mouth to hers. This kiss is better than the last; the taste of him is still on her tongue and hers is fresh on his. They stir together and Alistair wants to drown.

"We still have a lot to talk about," he reminds her once lack of air forces their lips apart. His eyes are already fluttering shut and Elissa's gentle carding of his hair does nothing to stave away the heaviness suddenly gnawing at his bones. He tightens his arms around her.

"I know," she says. Her lips brush his brow as she speaks. He can hear sleep leeching into her voice. "And we will. In the morning."

Alistair smooths a hand over the leg she still has slung over his. Andraste, if he could live wrapped up in her like this. "I'm holding you to that," he murmurs against her breast, her heartbeat pulsing steadily against his jaw.

He can feel her smile. "Good. I do like being held." And so he does.


End file.
